“Not with your nephew, I trust, for that which is altogether my fault,” interposed Ward. “I confess to it, my tastes are ruinously luxurious. Gould would never have thought of any thing so absurd; but I was lonely, and asked leave to share his parlor awhile. The unfortunate dinner was served by my order, and at my expense. As for the pretty gimcracks, it is my fancy. I like to have such things around me. But, my dear sir, you must not think me effeminate and worthless, for all that.” The old man’s face brightened wonderfully after this speech. He dropped his cane and placed his hat on the carpet once more. “Bring back the pen and ink! Give me another stamp! Here, Gould, take that. But, remember, find out where this family lives. I wish to know—I must know.” Gould took the check, which rattled like a dead leaf in the old man’s hand. “Uncle! uncle!” he said, “I ought not to take this; I have no right.” The old man snatched up his hat and cane, while these honest words were on his nephew’s lips, and left the room. When he was gone, Ward snatched the check from Gould, and leaping on the seat of his chair, brandished it on high. “What author ever got so much for a single romance, I wonder!” he cried. “I say, Gould, I must turn my attention to literature, or the stage. Did ever a lie out of whole cloth tell so famously. Pour out bumpers, my fine fellow, and let us drink the old fellow’s health!” “Be silent, sir!” Gould’s voice trembled with passion. There was too much good in him for a relish of such companionship, when it took that form of broad dishonesty. “Be silent, sir! if you would not have me hate you, and myself also.” With these hot words the young men parted. CHAPTER VIII. BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS. The orphan brothers sat together under the shadow of a garden wall, talking with earnest energy, as if their young lives were in the subject under discussion. A tender sadness lay on their faces; tears now and then broke through their words; and more than once their small hands clasped lovingly, as if companionship gave sweetness even to grief. A carriage drove by as they talked, scattering drops of mud on the sleeve of Joseph’s jacket. Robert brushed it off with great care, and patted the child on his shoulder in finishing. “Now you see how it is, Joe, you and I are the men of the family. Grandma is splendid at mending and darning, and making things go a long way; but she can’t earn money. So it all comes on sister Anna. Isn’t she a beautiful darling? Wasn’t she stupendous that night in the turban and red velvet jacket?” “She’s always good and handsome,” said Joseph, with touching simplicity; “but I like her best in that brown dress and the straw bonnet. She didn’t quite seem like our sister in the other things.” “But she outshone every one of them, Joseph.” “Yes, I know; but yet she wasn’t exactly like our sister Anna.”