"And doubtless you are a _capital judge_," said Mr. Moncton. "Young men all imagine themselves as wise as Daniel or Socrates. I think, however, friend Geoffrey, that this man deceived you." "Impossible! Harrison is incapable of committing a mean or dishonourable action. Nor does he attempt to spare himself from blame; but frankly confesses, that to his own imprudence he is mainly indebted for his misfortunes." "_Imprudence_ is a respectable term for intemperance, dissipation, and vice of every kind," sneered my uncle. "Your moral young gentleman might preach against sins which had caused his own ruin. Believe me, Geoffrey, the crimes and passions of most men are alike, with only this difference, that some have greater art in concealing them." "That would make virtue a mere name," said I, indignantly. "I cannot believe _that_ ideal, which I have been used to worship as a _reality_." "All bosh. At your age men cling to the ideal, and resolutely close their eyes to the true and rational. I was guilty of the same weakness once." "You, uncle!" "Ay, you are astonished. But the time came, and too soon, when I learned to wonder at my own credulity. I was in love once. You smile. Yes, with that old witch, as you call her now. She was as beautiful as an angel then. She is an incarnate devil now! Love has turned to hate--admiration to execration--and I curse myself for ever having thought her wise or good." He flung himself into a chair, and groaned like one in acute pain; and I, thinking he wished to be alone, slipped away before he raised his head from between his clasped hands. "What could he mean by asking me so many questions?" I cried, as I threw myself into an easy chair in my luxurious apartment. "Were they instigated by the wine he had drank, or suggested by idle curiosity? or were my answers intended to answer some sinister purpose? God knows! He is a strange, inexplicable man, whose words and actions the most profound lawyer could scarcely fathom. I think he endeavoured to make me intoxicated in the hope of extracting some information regarding poor George. If so, he has missed his mark." I drew from my bosom the portraits he had given me, perhaps, as a bait to win my confidence; but I was thankful to him for the inestimable gift, whatever the motives were which led to its bestowal. The first case contained the miniature of my father. The gay, careless, happy countenance, full of spirit and intelligence, seemed to smile upon his unfortunate son. I raised my eyes to the mirror--the same features met my glance: but ah, how different the expression of the two faces. Mine was saddened and paled by early care, and close confinement to a dark unhealthy office; at twenty, I was but a faded likeness of my father. I sighed as I pressed the portrait to my heart. In the marked difference between us I read distinctly the history of two lives.