“Gould,” said the uncle, folding up his glasses, and shutting them in their steel case with a loud snap of the spring, “Gould, I congratulate you.” “What for, uncle?” “That this exquisite young gentleman is your friend. He does credit to your choice—great credit. Such honors do not often drop into our humble way. Sir, I am your servant.” The old satirist arose, and making a profound bow, sat down again, where he could see Ward’s face burning like fire. “I found your note at the counting-house, Gould, speaking of the serious nature of your illness, and came up to see if a consultation of doctors would be necessary.” “That was written this morning when I was seriously ill. You remember, Ward?” “Oh, yes! Upon my honor, sir, Gould was desperate with—with a—that is, neuralgia in the head. You would have been quite concerned about him. We tried chloroform—a great thing that chloroform. Did you ever try it, sir?” “So the chloroform cured my nephew. I am delighted to hear it. That is it upon the mantle-piece, I dare say. Give me a little.” The old tormentor pointed to a flask of Bohemian glass, dashed with gold, that stood on the mantle-piece. “That, uncle? Oh! that is extract of violet. It sometimes serves to carry off a headache better than any thing else. Will you try it?” The old man held out his hand for the bottle; took a great red silk handkerchief from his pocket, and emptied half the extract into its folds, scenting the room like a violet bank in May. “Your note, Gould, asked for money—an unusual thing; so unusual, that I brought the check in my pocket.” At the mention of a check, Ward started round in his chair, and fixed a hungry glance on that hard, old face. A check! His thousand dollars might not be so very far off, after all. Gould bent eagerly over his uncle’s chair. “You are too good, uncle. I—I——” “Oh! not at all, Gould. You deserve all that I am going to do for you—richly deserve it. Give me a light while I sign the check; thank you. There now, see how careless. You haven’t a stamp about you, I fear.” “Oh, yes!” cried Ward. “Here is one.” He reached over in handing the stamp, and caught a glance at the amount. “By Jove! it’s for two thousand!” he said, inly. “Gould shall go halves before I leave him.” The old man smiled one of his iron smiles as he pressed the stamp in its place. Then he signed the check, with a broad, old-fashioned flourish under the name. “Will that do?” he asked, lifting his face to that of his nephew, who bent over his shoulder delighted. “Is the figure large enough?” “Oh, uncle! It is more than I dared hope for.” “Not at all, Gould. Remember, I filled it in thinking you ill. No, no! do not put out the taper yet. What a pretty stand you have for it; filigree gold, as I am a miserly old sinner. That makes a pretty blaze, doesn’t it?”