but no matter. You know
how very rich your father is; but Silas was the younger brother, and had
little more than a thousand a year. If he had not played, and did not care
to marry, it would have been quite enough--ever so much more than younger
sons of dukes often have; but he was--well, a _mauvais sujet_--you know
what that is. I don't want to say any ill of him--more than I really
know--but he was fond of his pleasures, I suppose, like other young men,
and he played, and was always losing, and your father for a long time paid
great sums for him. I believe he was really a most expensive and vicious
young man; and I fancy he does not deny that now, for they say he would
change the past if he could.

I was looking at the pensive little boy in the oval frame--aged eight
years--who was, a few springs later, 'a most expensive and vicious young
man,' and was now a suffering and outcast old one, and wondering from what
a small seed the hemlock or the wallflower grows, and how microscopic are
the beginnings of the kingdom of God or of the mystery of iniquity in a
human being's heart.

'Austin--your papa--was very kind to him--_very_; but then, you know,
he's an oddity, dear--he _is_ an oddity, though no one may have told you
before--and he never forgave him for his marriage. Your father, I suppose,
knew more about the lady than I did--I was young then--but there were
various reports, none of them pleasant, and she was not visited, and for
some time there was a complete estrangement between your father and your
uncle Silas; and it was made up, rather oddly, on the very occasion which
some people said ought to have totally separated them. Did you ever hear
anything--anything _very_ remarkable--about your uncle?'

'No, never, they would not tell me, though I am sure they know. Pray go
on.'

'Well, Maud, as I have begun, I'll complete the story, though perhaps it
might have been better untold. It was something rather shocking--indeed,
_very_ shocking; in fact, they insisted on suspecting him of having
committed a murder.'

I stared at my cousin for some time, and then at the little boy, so
refined, so beautiful, so _funeste_, in the oval frame.

'Yes, dear,' said she, her eyes following mine; 'who'd have supposed he
could ever have--have fallen under so horrible a suspicion?'

'The wretches! Of course, Uncle Silas--of course, he's innocent?' I said at
last.

'Of course, my dear,' said Cousin Monica, with an odd look; 'bu