ks; he said--no,
boy, od's fish, it was so stinging I can't tell it thee; faith, I can't.
Poor Sid; he was a good fellow, though malicious,--and he's dead now.
I'm sorry I said a word about it. Nay, never look so disappointed, boy.
You have all the cream of the story as it is. And now put on your hat,
and come with me. I've got leave for you to take a walk with your old
uncle."

That night, as I was undressing, I heard a gentle rap at the door, and
Aubrey entered. He approached me timidly, and then, throwing his arms
round my neck, kissed me in silence. I had not for years experienced
such tenderness from him; and I sat now mute and surprised. At last
I said, with the sneer which I must confess I usually assumed towards
those persons whom I imagined I had a right to think ill of:--

"Pardon me, my gentle brother, there is something portentous in this
sudden change. Look well round the room, and tell me at your earliest
leisure what treasure it is that you are desirous should pass from my
possession into your own."

"Your love, Morton," said Aubrey, drawing back, but apparently in pride,
not anger; "your love: I ask nothing more."

"Of a surety, kind Aubrey," said I, "the favour seems somewhat slight to
have caused your modesty such delay in requesting it. I think you have
been now some years nerving your mind to the exertion."

"Listen to me, Morton," said Aubrey, suppressing his emotion; "you have
always been my favourite brother. From our first childhood my heart
yearned to you. Do you remember the time when an enraged bull pursued
me, and you, then only ten years old, placed yourself before it and
defended me at the risk of your own life? Do you think I could ever
forget that,--child as I was?--never, Morton, never!"

Before I could answer the door was thrown open, and the Abbe entered.
"Children," said he, and the single light of the room shone full
upon his unmoved, rigid, commanding features--"children, be as Heaven
intended you,--friends and brothers. Morton, I have wronged you, I own
it; here is my hand: Aubrey, let all but early love, and the present
promise of excellence which your brother displays, be forgotten."

With these words the priest joined our hands. I looked on my brother,
and my heart melted. I flung myself into his arms and wept.

"This is well," said Montreuil, surveying us with a kind of grim
complacency, and, taking my brother's arm, he blest us both, and led
Aubrey away.

That day w