‘Loved him, yes,’ answered the other, with a long regretful sigh. ‘I loved him and was proud of him; proud in spite of his vices; proud of his good looks, his cleverness, his plausible tongue—the tongue that lied to me and swindled me. God help me, he was the only thing I had to love! He came home, pretended to take to the business. Never was a man better qualified to prosper in such a trade. He had a keen appreciation of art; was quick at learning the jargon which deludes amateur buyers; and in the business of bargain-driving would have Jewed the veriest Jew alive. But his habits were against anything like sustained industry. It was not till after he had won my confidence, and wheedled me into giving him a partnership, that I discovered how little he had changed his old ways. As he had robbed me before he was twelve years old, so he robbed me now; only as his necessities were larger, I felt his dishonesty more. I saw my stock shrinking, my books doctored. Vainly I tried to battle with an intellect that was stronger than my own. Long after I knew him to be a rogue, he was able to demonstrate to me, by what seemed the soundest logic, that I was mistaken. One day, when he had been living with me something more than a year, he informed me, in his easy-going way, that he had married some years before, lost his wife soon after, and that I was a grandfather. “You’re fond of children,” he said. “I’ve seen you notice those little curly-headed beggars next door. You’d better let me send for Lucille.”’ ‘You consented?’ ‘Of course. Lucille came the same night. A pale melancholy child, in whose small face I saw no likeness to any of my race. Of her mother I could ascertain very little. My son was reticent. His wife was of decent birth, he said, and had possessed a little money, which he had spent, and that was all he ever told me. Of how or where she died, he said nothing. Lucille talked of green fields and flowers and the sea; but knew no more of the whereabouts of her previous home than if she had come straight from Paradise.’ ‘Then you do not even know her mother’s maiden-name?’ ‘No. That’s hard upon you, isn’t it? There’ll be a blank in your children’s pedigree.’ ‘I will submit to the blank; only it seems rather hard upon Lucille that she should never have known her mother’s relatives, that she should have been cheated of any affection they might have given her.’ ‘Affection! the affection of aunts and uncles and cousins! Milk-and-water!’ ‘Well, sir, you and your son contrived to live together for some years.’