as he was when I last saw him, with his sweet, boyish face, in which
his mother's looks were reflected."

"Yet, if still living," interrupted Curtis, harshly, "he is a rough
street boy, perchance serving his time at Blackwell's Island, and, a
hardened young ruffian, whom it would be bitter mortification to
recognize as your son."

"That's the sorrowful part of it," said his uncle, in a voice of
anguish. "That is what I most dread."

"Then, since even if he were living you would not care to recognize
him, why not cease to think of him, or else regard him as dead?"

"Curtis Waring, have you no heart?" demanded Florence, indignantly.

"Indeed, Florence, you ought to know," said Curtis, sinking his voice
into softly modulated accents.

"I know nothing of it," said Florence, coldly, rising from her
recumbent position, and drawing aloof from Curtis.

"You know that the dearest wish of my heart is to find favor in your
eyes. Uncle, you know my wish, and approve of it, do you not?"

"Yes, Curtis; you and Florence are equally dear to me, and it is my
hope that you may be united. In that case, there will be no division
of my fortune. It will be left to you jointly."

"Believe me, sir," said Curtis, with faltering voice, feigning an