is man's influence was fatal to your father. I know he did all in
his power to widen the breach with your grandfather.'

'That was eighteen years ago,' said Guy, walking on, biting his lip in a
fiery fit of impatience.

'You will not hear. Remember, that his position and associates render
him no fit companion for you. Nay, listen patiently. You cannot help the
relationship. I would not have you do otherwise than assist him. Let him
not complain of neglect, but be on your guard. He will either seriously
injure you, or be a burden for life.'

'I have heard you so far--I can hear no more,' said Guy, no longer
restraining his impetuosity. 'He is my uncle, that I know, I care for
nothing else. Position--nonsense! what has that to do with it? I will
not be set against him.'

He strode off; but in a few moments turned back, overtook Philip, said--
'Thank you for your advice. I beg your pardon for my hastiness. You mean
kindly, but I must see my uncle.' And, without waiting for an answer, he
was gone.

In short space he was in the little parlour of the music-shop, shaking
hands with his uncle, and exclaiming,--

'I am so glad! I hoped it was you!'

'It is very noble-hearted! I might have known it would be so with the
son of my dearest sister and of my generous friend!' cried Mr. Dixon,
with eagerness that had a theatrical air, though it was genuine feeling
that filled his eyes with tears.

'I saw your name last night' continued Guy. 'I would have tried to speak
to you at once, but I was obliged to stay with Mrs. Edmonstone, as I was
the only gentleman with her.'

'Ah! I thought it possible you might not be able to follow the dictate
of your own heart; but this is a fortunate conjuncture, in the absence
of your guardian.'

Guy recollected Philip's remonstrance, and it crossed him whether his
guardian might be of the same mind; but he felt confident in having told
all to Mrs. Edmonstone.

'How did you know I was here?' he asked.

'I learnt it in a most gratifying way. Mr. Redford, without knowing
our connection--for on that I will always be silent--mentioned that the
finest tenor he had ever known, in an amateur, belonged to his pupil,
Sir Guy Morville. You can imagine my feelings at finding you so near,
and learning that you had inherited your dear mother's talent and
taste.'

The conversation was long, for there was much to hear. Mr. Dixon had
kept up a correspondence at long intervals with Markham, from whom h