"Is he not the image of my dead son? Never have I seen such a resemblance to what Julian was at his age!" "My dear uncle," said Hugo, shrugging his shoulders, "I assure you that it is all a fancy on your part. To me he looks very unlike my cousin." "You don't remember him as I do, Hugo. If Julian's son were living, he would look like that boy." "Possibly, uncle," said Hugo, carelessly; "but as he is dead that cannot interest us!" While Robert was in the ring the old man followed him with a glance almost painful in its eagerness. CHAPTER VIII. A SCHEMING NEPHEW. When Robert left the ring, the old man sank back into his seat, and his interest in the performance ceased. For some reason his nephew also was anxious to leave the tent. "Uncle," he said, "hadn't we better go back to the hotel? It will be too fatiguing for you to remain here all the evening." "Will that boy ride again?" asked Mr. Richmond, eagerly. "No, he is not to appear again." "Then I think I will go. As you say, I may feel fatigued." There was a hack in waiting to convey them back to the hotel, for the distance was too great for a feeble old man to walk. When they reached the hotel, Mr. Richmond went at once to his chamber, attended by his nephew. "You had better go to bed at once, uncle," said Hugo, and he prepared to leave the room. "Stay a moment, Hugo. I want to speak to you," said the old man. "Very well, uncle," and Hugo seated himself. "The sight of that boy has affected me strangely, Hugo," said Mr. Richmond. "He seems just what Julian was at his age." "You said so before, uncle," said Hugo, in a tone of annoyance; "but I assure you there is nothing in it. My eyes are better than yours, and I could see no likeness." "Suppose Julian's child were living," proceeded Mr. Richmond, not heeding his nephew's last speech, "he would be about the age of that boy." "There are tens of thousands of boys about the same age, uncle," said Hugo, flippantly. "Yes, but they haven't his look," returned the old man, shrewdly. "Really, uncle, you are troubling yourself to no purpose. The son of Julian died when he was four years old, as Fitzgerald reported to us." "He might be mistaken. If he only were!" exclaimed the old man, with deep emotion. "How bright my few remaining years would be if I had Julian's son with me!" "No doubt. But he is dead, and we may as well give up all thoughts of such a possibility. Besides, uncle, you have me, and I try to do all I can for you. If I have failed, I deeply regret it," continued Hugo, assuming a tone of sorrow. "No, no; I have no fault to find with you, Hugo," said his uncle, hastily. "You are devoted to me, as I am well aware; but you cannot be to me what a son or a grandson might be." "No, I suppose not," said Hugo, with a sneer which his uncle did not detect. "But I am afraid, uncle, you will have to be content with my humble services, however unacceptable they may be."