“Because I hate hypocrisy,” answered the other, angrily. “There sits Matilda, striving to appear to eat what I know she abhors, afraid to say what her likes or dislikes are; it would not be worth the effort she makes to swallow it, if the hateful curry-powder was gold-dust. See, she is pale now—and sick, too, I dare say; for shame, Matilda. Uncle Medway, must, indeed, be deaf, dumb, and blind, not to discover in a short time all your false pretences.” Sophy spoke rapidly, despite of both mother and sister’s attempts to stop her, and Grace’s appealing looks. Secure in their guest’s entire deafness, she railed severely at the deceit she despised. Uncle Medway cast a searching look toward Matilda, and then turning to Grace, who sat next him, invited her to partake of his favorite dish. Grace thanked him, but declined. “What,” said he, with a smile, “can’t you bear curry either? Perhaps you have never tasted it.” “I am not fond of it, I confess,” answered Grace. “I have often seen it on my grandfather’s table, and he tried in vain to induce me to like it.” Again those shrewd eyes of Uncle Medway rested on Grace’s countenance, and no further discussion arising, the dinner passed pleasantly off. After dinner Grace was left alone with the old gentleman, while the sisters took their usual promenade, when suddenly turning toward her, he said, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, “Who _was_ your grandfather?” Grace looked up in surprise, but immediately answered, “My grandfather’s name was Maurice Addison.” “And your father’s?” “Jacob Addison; he was born in India—” and then, with a sudden impulse, she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Medway, did you know my grandfather? Are you not the old friend I have so often heard him mention, who went out to India with him, and who was so true and kind to him in illness and trouble? You _are_, I am sure, and my father was named after you, Jacob Addison.” It was unusual for the quiet Grace to be roused to such enthusiasm, but she rose from her seat, and laying her hand on the old gentleman’s chair, looked into his face with such an affectionate and expectant gaze, that his heart must have been adamant, indeed, to resist it. And as his was, in reality, a loving and unselfish heart, he drew Grace gently toward him, and a pleasant smile lighted up his face, as he said, “And _are_ you Maurice Addison’s own little merry pet, Grace, he so often mentioned in his letters to me? _You are_, I am sure; and you are the daughter of my little god-son, Jacob, who was only knee-high when I saw him last. And now, my dear child, for surely I have a right to call you so, why are you living here? Where are your parents?”