nd having found his idea, went on writing. But presently
his eyes strayed again, and once more lit upon the misplaced piece of
gilding.

He went over mechanically to adjust it, pondering his letter all the
while.

"Why ever can't they hang things where they can be seen?" said he as he
drew back the curtain.

The last words dropped half-spoken from his lips, as he disclosed the
portrait of a certain boy, flashing at him with his reckless eyes, and
half-defying him out of the canvas.

Like Mr Armstrong, when he had encountered the picture a month ago,
Roger Ingleton instinctively guessed in whose presence he stood.

The discovery had something in it both of a shock and a disappointment.
If this was really his elder brother, he was strangely different from
what he had in fancy pictured him. He had imagined him his own age,
whereas this was a boy considerably his junior. He had imagined him
dark and grave, whereas this was fair and mocking; and he had imagined
him amiable and sympathetic, whereas this was hostile and defiant.

Yet, for all that, Roger stood fascinated. A chord deep in his nature
thrilled as he said to himself, "My brother." He, the young man, felt
himself captive to this imperious boy. He wished he knew the mind of
the picture, or could hear its voice. What were the eyes flashing at?
At whom or what were the lips thus curled? Was it wickedness, or anger,
or insolence, or all together, that made the face so unlike any other
face he knew?

How long he spent over these speculations, half afraid, half enamoured
of the picture, he could not say. He forgot all about his letter; nor
did he finally descend from the clouds till a voice behind him said--

"What have you got there, old fellow?"

"Oh, Armstrong," said the boy, turning round hurriedly, like one
detected in mischief, "look here at this picture."

The tutor was looking.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"My elder brother, I'm sure. I didn't know we had it."

"There's not much family likeness in it," said Mr Armstrong. "Are you
sure it is he?"

"I feel positive of it. Stay, perhaps there's something written on the
back," and he lifted the picture from the nail.

The paper at the back was almost black with dust and age. They wiped it
carefully with a duster, and took it to the window.

"No," said Roger, "nothing there."

"Yes," said the tutor, "what's this?"

And he pointed out a few faint marks in very faded ink, which, after
co