r, can you
give me a little money?"

"Money! I gave you twenty-five dollars three days since."

"I haven't got a dime left."

"What did you do with it, you young spendthrift? Gambled on the boat, I
dare say."

"Well, I had a little game," answered Jasper, coolly.

"And lost?"

"Yes, I lost."

"Of course. You are too green to cope with the sharpers that infest
those boats. Haven't I forbidden you to play?"

"There was nothing else to do."

"You appear to pay very slight regard to my commands. In return I shall
allow you to know what it is to be penniless for a time."

"Won't you give me any money, father?"

"No, I won't."

Jasper looked dark and sullen. He was an utterly spoiled boy, if one
can be called spoiled, who had so few good qualities which admitted of
being spoiled. He inherited his father's bad traits, his selfishness
and unscrupulousness, in addition to a spirit of deceitfulness and
hypocrisy from his mother's nature. He was not as censurable as he
would have been had he not possessed these bad tendencies.

He finished his breakfast and went out.

"That's a model son to have--a son to be proud of," soliloquized his
father. "He is already a gambler, a liar, and cares for me only as I
have it in my power to promote his selfish ends. I have let him grow up
like an evil weed, and I am afraid he will some day disgrace me."

Though himself unscrupulous and bad, Mr. Grey would have been glad to
have his son better than himself. In his secret heart he felt the
superiority of Gilbert to his cousin. Yet Jasper, with all his faults,
was his son, and the wily father schemed to secure to him the property
which belonged to his nephew.

He was interrupted by the entrance of a colored servant.

Pompey had originally been a slave, as he showed by his language at
times.

"Well, Pompey, have you been to the post-office?"

"Yes, sar."

"I suppose you found a paper for me, didn't you?"

"No, massa, didn't see nothing of no paper," said Pompey; "but I found
this letter," and he displayed a letter in a yellow envelope.

"Give it to me."

Mr. Grey took it in his hand, and saw that it was post-marked
"Cincinnati." The handwriting he did not recognize. His curiosity was
aroused.

"You can go, Pompey," he said, waving his hand.

"I'm gone, massa."

James Grey tore open the letter hastily, and turned at once to the
signature.

"Maurice Walton!" he repeated. "Why that's my young spy. It must be
about