Mr. Smales and his daughter Harriet,
there sat at the table a lad of about thirteen, with a dark, handsome
face, which had something of a foreign cast His eyes gleamed at all
times with the light of a frank joyousness; he laughed with the
unrestraint of a perfectly happy nature. His countenance was capable,
too, of a thoughtfulness beyond his years, a gravity which seemed to
come of high thoughts or rich imagination. He bore no trace of
resemblance to either the chemist or his daughter, yet was their
relative. Mr. Smales had had a sister, who at an early age became a
public singer, and so far prospered as to gain some little distinction
in two or three opera seasons. Whilst thus engaged, she made the
acquaintance of an Italian, Casti by name, fell in love with him, and
subsequently followed him to Italy. Her courage was rewarded, for there
she became the singer's wife. They travelled for two years, during
which time a son was born to them. The mother's health failed; she was
unable henceforth to travel with her husband, and, after living in Rome
for nearly four years, she died there. The boy was shortly brought back
to England by his father, and placed in the care of Mr. Smales, on the
understanding that a sum of money should be paid yearly for his support
and education. From that day to the present nothing more had been heard
of Signor Casti, and all the care of his sister's child had fallen upon
poor Smales, who was not too well provided with means to support his
own small household. However, he had not failed in the duty, and Julian
(his name had been Englished) was still going to school at his uncle's
expense. It was by this time understood that, on leaving school, he
should come into the shop, and there qualify himself for the business
of a chemist.

Had it not been for Julian, the back parlour would have seen but little
cheerfulness to-night. Mr. Smales himself was always depressed in mind
and ailing in body. Life had proved too much for him; the burden of the
recurring daylight was beyond his strength. There was plainly no lack
of kindliness in his disposition, and this never failed to come
strongly into his countenance as often as he looked at Harriet. She was
his only child. Her mother had died of consumption early in their
married life, and it was his perpetual dread lest he should discover in
Harriet a disposition to the same malady.

His fears had but too much stimulus to keep them alive. Harriet had
pass