Mr. Thomas Cossart was the younger of the brothers who now were the heads of a thriving business in one of the eastern counties. Their father had begun from small means; but prudence, upright dealing, and industry, combined with shrewdness and skill, had worked up the business to something very considerable. He had died a wealthy man, but his daughter had not succeeded to any farther portion of his wealth. The old Cossart had been hurt and offended at the way in which his child had been separated from her own people through Mr. Cholmondeley’s pride. He had made no complaint, but he had felt it keenly. The sons took it more quietly. They were busy men, and possibly the knowledge that what would have been their sister’s portion had fallen to their share, disposed them to take the matter with equanimity. They used to write and send presents at Christmas, just to show there was no ill-feeling, and as long as Mrs. Cholmondeley lived she had always done the same. When it was told to the Cossart brothers that Mr. Cholmondeley had died rather suddenly, leaving his affairs in a very involved state, and asking their help and guardianship for his two children, the response had been prompt and kindly. “I shall come as soon as I can possibly arrange to be away from the works,” Mr. Tom Cossart had written. “My brother is laid up with the gout and is unable to move, and I cannot be present at the funeral as I have too many important engagements to fulfil. But I shall come immediately afterwards and do my best to assist in the winding up of affairs.” He had written also to his nephew, stating briefly that there would be a home for them with their relatives and a place for him in the works. Now they were waiting with some excitement of mind for the arrival of the unknown uncle, in whose hands their future seemed to lie. “I hope he will be nice and kind!” cried Sheila, as she paced the big hall with excited steps. “I want to like him if I can; but what shall we do if he is harsh and unkind, or”—here she lowered her voice and added, as if half afraid of her own imaginings—“if he is dreadfully common and vulgar?” “He is our mother’s brother,” said Oscar gravely. “We must try always to remember that.” “Yes, but mother had been sent away to a good school, and father saw her and fell in love with her when she was on a visit just after she left. She had scarcely lived at home at all. I don’t think that is any proof. Oscar, shall I have to kiss him when he comes?” “I think you had better, Sheila. He is our uncle. I think he will expect it.” Sheila made a little grimace; but she had been petted all her life, and kissing came easily to her. “I wonder why girls are expected to kiss everybody and be kissed? Boys get off. It isn’t quite fair. But I’ll try to be as good as I can.”