“The father’s name is Malcolm—Walter Malcolm, as he informed me. With the daughter’s I believe that I have already acquainted you.” “Walter Malcolm! Julie Malcolm! And you say they are from Baltimore?” As he spoke Mr. Colman’s cheek grew suddenly pale, and rising from his seat he paced the apartment with a hasty and agitated step. “Why, what is the matter, Harry?” exclaimed his wife in a tone of the deepest solicitude, as she sprung to his side, “pray tell me what has moved you thus?” But it was some moments ere he seemed able to reply. At length with emotion he said— “Alice, what if I were to tell you that this man—this Walter Malcolm is my brother—the brother who in my early youth drove me away from his luxurious home, an orphan and unprotected, to seek my fortune in the wide, wide world?” Alice Colman started and raised her eyes wonderingly to her husband’s face, and after a brief silence he resumed with a sternness unusual to him— “In that hour, Alice—in that hour of utter desolation, when lonely and uncared for I left my brother’s roof forever, a fierce, burning desire for revenge took possession of my soul. In the first bitterness of despair I called upon Heaven to avenge my wrongs. I wished that Walter’s wealth might take to itself wings—that one day he might come to me for bread; and I resolved were this ever the case, to give him—a stone! My desire has been fulfilled, and my proud and unfeeling brother is now a beggar at my door!” He paused—while his wife shuddered and looked appealingly up into his face. “Harry!” she exclaimed in a low, earnest tone, “you surely do not mean that you will not forgive the sorrow your brother’s conduct once caused you—that you will now look exultingly upon his woes, and turn a deaf ear to the wants of his sweet and suffering child?” The reproving expression of the dear face now anxiously upturned to his, at once recalled the husband to a sense of error, and drawing the form of the beloved one closer to his side, he said—