corn; 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."

I did not pay very particular attention to this conversation at the
time, but after events recalled it vividly to my recollection.

The undertaker put an end to the conference by informing the gentlemen
that "all was ready, and the hearse was a