he turned half round, looked me full in the face, and smiled a sort of
wintry smile. The expression of his countenance was almost ghastly.

"Uncle," I quickly said, "What's the matter? Are you not well?"

"I am not as strong as I used to be, and I have had a good deal to try
me of late. Have patience and I will tell you all. Let us walk more
slowly, or I shall not finish before we get home. In order that you may
clearly understand how matters are, I had better begin at the
beginning, and I hope you will not interrupt me with any questions till
I have done. How I knew you would call at the Boston post-office, and
that you would arrive in Toronto by this train, will come last in
order. By the by, have you my letter with you?"

"The one you wrote to me at Boston? Yes, here it is," I replied, taking
it from my pocket-book.

"Let me have it."

I handed it to him, and he put it into the breast pocket of his inside
coat. I wondered at this proceeding on his part, but made no remark
upon it.

We moderated our pace, and he began his narration. Of course I don't
pretend to remember his exact words, but they were to this effect.
During the winter following my departure to Melbourne, he had formed
the acquaintance of a gentleman who had then recently settled in
Toronto. The name of this gentleman was Marcus Weatherley, who had
commenced business as a wholesale provision merchant immediately upon
his arrival, and had been engaged in it ever since. For more than three