“Uncle August,” he said, a hot flush mantling his cheek, “I have an hour just before I need to go. Can I see you alone for a little while on a matter of business?” “Business, Geoff!” laughed his uncle. “I imagined that your mind was filled with literary pursuits, to the exclusion of all else. I had no idea you could combine the two.” “I should not have called it business; the matter upon which I wish to speak is far more vital than any business could possibly be,” Geoffrey replied, gravely. “I’ll wager the boy is borrowing trouble over his resemblance to that chap whom we met last evening; he doubtless believes that he is on the verge of some important discovery, and wants me to help him ferret out the truth,” Mr. Huntress mused, as he led the way to his library. “Now, Geoff, I’m ready to listen to whatever you may have on your mind,” he said, seating himself comfortably, and motioning the young man to another chair. “Uncle August,” Geoffrey began, after pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, “you know, do you not, that I am truly grateful to you for the unexampled kindness which you have shown me ever since you found me, such a pitiable object, in the streets of New York?” “Why, my boy!” said Mr. Huntress, looking astonished over this unexpected speech, “I have never stopped to think whether you were grateful or not; you have always shown that you loved me and desired to please me, and that was enough.” “I have loved you—I do love you; if I should ever discover my own father I do not believe that I could give him the deep affection which I cherish for you. But, Uncle August, I have a confession to make to you this morning which may cause something of a change in your feelings toward me.” “A confession?” repeated Mr. Huntress, looking up quickly and anxiously. “Surely, Geoff, you haven’t been getting into any trouble at college?” “No, sir; what I have to tell you, you may regard as far more serious than any college scrape—it may alienate your affection for me far more, but——” “Out with it, Geoff, don’t beat about the bush; I fancy you won’t find me very obdurate, no matter what you have done,” Mr. Huntress interrupted, although he believed Geoffrey was making a mountain out of some molehill. “I will, sir; confession is the only honorable course open to me, and yet if I offend you I shall dread to look my future in the face.” “Good heavens, Geoffrey! you begin to frighten me; speak out—what have you been doing that is so dreadful?” exclaimed his friend, now looking thoroughly alarmed. “I have dared to—love Gladys, sir.” “You have dared to love Gladys! Well, of course, who could help it?” said August Huntress, his astonishment increasing, and not, on the instant, comprehending the full import of the words.