‘Well, my little boy, what are you doing up here?’

‘Telling the folks which way to go,’ was Harold’s answer.

‘Who are you?’ Arthur continued.  ‘What is your name?’

‘Harold Hastings,’ was the reply; and instantly there came over the white, thin face, and into the large, bright eyes, an expression which made the boy stand back a little as the tall man came up to him and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said, excitedly: 

’Harold Hastings!  He was once my friend, or, I thought he was; but I hate him now.  And he was your father, and Amy Crawford was your mother? N’est ce pas? Answer me!’

‘Yes, sir—­yes, sir; but I don’t know what you mean by “na-se par,"’ Harold said, in a frightened voice; and Arthur continued, as he tightened his grasp on his shoulder: 

‘Don’t you know you ought to have been my son, instead of his?’

‘Yes, sir—­yes, sir; I’ll never do so again,’ Harold stammered, too much alarmed now to know what he was saying, or of what he was accused.

’No, you never will do it again.  I hated your father, and I hate you, and I am going to throw you over the stair railing!’ Arthur said, and seizing Harold’s coat-collar, he swung him over the banister as if he had been a feather, while the boy struggled and fought, and held onto the rails, until help appeared in the person of Frank Tracy, who came swiftly up the stairs, demanding the cause of what he saw.

He had been standing near the drawing-room door, and had caught the sound of his brother’s voice and Harold’s as if in altercation.  Excusing himself from those around him, he hastened to the scene of action in time to save Harold from a broken limb, if not a broken neck.

‘What is it?  What have you been doing?’ he asked the boy, who replied, amid his tears: 

’I hain’t been doing anything, only minding my business, and he came and asked me who I was, and when I told him, he was going to chuck me over the railing—­darn him!  I wish I was big; I’d lick him!’

Harold’s cheeks were flushed, and the great tears glittered in his eyes, as he stood up, brave and defiant, and resentful of the injustice done him.

‘Are you mad, Arthur?’ Frank said.

And whether it was the tone of his voice, or the words he uttered, something produced a wonderful effect upon his brother, whose mood changed at once, and who advanced toward Harold with outstretched hand, saying to him: 

’Forgive me, my little man.  I think I must have been mad for the instant; there is such a heat in my head, and the crash of that music almost drives me wild.  Shall it be peace between us, my boy?’

It was next to impossible to resist the influence of Arthur Tracy’s smile, and Harold took the offered hand and said, between a sob and a laugh: 

‘I don’t know now why you wanted to throw me down stairs.’

‘Nor I, and I will make it up to you some time,’ was Arthur’s reply, as he took his brother’s arm and said:  ‘Now introduce me to your guests.’