"Here's to your rising to the head of the profession, Geoffrey. Fill your glass, my boy." I drank part of the wine, and set the glass down on the table. It was fine old Madeira. I had not been used to drink anything stronger than tea and coffee, and I found it mounting to my head. "I will not allow that, Geoffrey--you must honour my toast." "I have done so, uncle, as far as I am able. I have had enough wine." "Nonsense, boy! Don't you like it?" "I hardly know. It makes me feel giddy and queer." "Ha! ha! that's good"--chuckling and rubbing his hands. "If I take more just now, I shall certainly be tipsy." "What then?" "It would be disgraceful. In your presence, too." "What--were you never drunk?" "Never, in my life." "How old are you?" "Twenty." "And never intoxicated--well, that's a good joke. Few young men of your age could say that. Would you not like to increase your knowledge, and be as wise as others?" I shook my head. "Ridiculous prudery. Come, fill your glass." He drank off several glasses in succession; and for fear I should be thought deficient in spirit; I followed his example. But the Rubicon once crossed, to my surprise, I found that the wine had no effect upon my senses; only serving to elevate my spirits a little, and make me more sociable and communicative. My uncle's stern face began to relax from its usual cold severity, and I found that when warmed with wine, he could be a most intelligent and agreeable companion. After conversing for some time on indifferent subjects, he said: "You think you remember your parents. I have their portraits. Perhaps you would like to keep them in your own possession." "No present you could make me, would be so valuable," I replied. "No heroics," he said, going to a beautiful inlaid cabinet. "I detest sentimental people. They are the greatest humbugs in the world." Returning to the table, he placed two large miniature cases in my hand. I eagerly seized them. "Don't look at them now," he resumed, "or we shall have a scene--wait until you are alone. I found them among my brother's papers, and had forgotten all about them, until I chanced to stumble over them in the bustle of removing." I hid away the precious relics in my bosom, and was about to quit the room. "Sit down, Geoffrey," he said, with a grim smile, "you are too sober to go to bed yet." I filled the glass mechanically, but it remained untasted before me. "By the by," continued my uncle, in a careless tone, which his eager glance contradicted, "what has become of your friend Harrison?" "I wish I knew. His absence is a great loss to me." "Who and what is this Harrison? You were his confidant, and, doubtless, know." "Of his private history, nothing." My uncle's large dark eyes were looking into my soul. I felt that he doubted my word. "He has, I believe, been unfortunate, and is reduced in his circumstances. His moral character, _I know_ to be excellent."