Two gentlemen, attracted by my cries and struggles, entered the room. The foremost was a tall, portly man, whom the world would call handsome. His features were good, and his complexion darkly brilliant; but there was a haughty, contemptuous expression in his large, prominent, selfish-looking eyes, which sent a chill to my heart. Glittering and glassy, they sparkled like ice--clear, sarcastic and repelling--and oh, how cold! The glance of that eye made me silent in a moment. It fascinated like the eye of a snake. I continued to shiver and stare at him, as long as its scornful gaze remained riveted upon my face. I felt a kindred feeling springing up in my heart--a feeling of defiance and resistance which would fain return hatred for hatred, scorn for scorn; and never in after-life could I meet the searching look of that stern cold eye, without experiencing the same outward abhorrence and inward revulsion. He took my hand, and turning me round, examined my countenance with critical minuteness, neither moved by my childish indignation nor my tears. "A strong-limbed straight-made fellow, this. I did not think that Edward could be the father of such an energetic-looking boy. He's like his grandfather, and if I mistake not, will be just as obstinate and self-sustained." "A true Moncton," returned his companion, a coarse-featured, vulgar-looking man, with a weak, undecided, but otherwise kindly countenance. "You will not be able to bend that young one to your purpose." A bitter smile was the reply, and a fixed stare from those terribly bright eyes. "Poor child! He's very unfortunate," continued the same speaker. "I pity him from my very soul!" He placed his large hand kindly upon my head, and drawing me between his knees held up my face and kissed me with an air of parental tenderness. Touched by the unexpected caress, I clasped my arms about his neck, and hid my face in his bosom. He flung himself into a large chair, and lifted me upon his knee. "You seem to have taken a fancy to the boy," said my uncle, in the same sarcastic tone. "Suppose you adopt him as _your_ son. I would gladly be rid of him for ever; and would pay well for his change of name and country. Is it a bargain?" and he grasped his companion by the shoulder. "No. I will not incur the responsibility. I have done too much against the poor child already. Besides, a man with ten children has no need of adopting the child of a stranger. Providence has thrown him into your hands, Robert Moncton; and whether for good or evil, I beseech you to treat the lad kindly for his father's sake." "Well, well, I must, I see, make the best of a bad bargain. But, Walters, you could so easily take him with you to America. He has no friends by his mother's side, to make any stir about his disappearance. Under your name his identity will never be recognized, and it would be taking a thorn out of my side." "To plant it in my own heart. The child must remain with you."