“I have—­a handsome clever little fellow.  This nephew of mine greatly resembles him.”

“He cannot be more like you than this child is, whom his mother dared to call mine.  For my own part I never have, nor ever shall, consider him as such.”

“Brother! brother! you cannot, dare not, insinuate aught against the honor of your wife!” and Algernon sprang from his seat, his cheeks burning with anger.

“Sit down, sit down,” said the miser coldly; “I do not mean to quarrel with you on that score.  In one sense of the word she was faithful.  I gave her no opportunity of being otherwise.  But her heart”—­and his dark eye emitted an unnatural blaze of light—­“her heart was false to me, or that boy could not have resembled you in every feature.”

“These things happen every day,” said Algernon.  “Children often resemble their grandfathers and uncles more than they do their own parents.  It is hard to blame poor Elinor for having a child like me.  Let me look at you, boy,” he continued, turning the child’s head towards him as he spoke.  “Are you so very, very like your uncle Algernon?” The extraordinary likeness could not fail to strike him.  It filled the heart of the miser with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness.  Still the expression of the child’s face was the only point of real resemblance; his features and complexion belonged to his father.  “Your jealous fancy, Mark, has conjured up a phantom to annoy you.  Where did this boy get his black eyes from, if not from you? his dark complexion?  I am fair, my eyes are blue.”

“He has his mother’s eyes,” sullenly returned the miser.

“I might as well accuse you of being the father of Godfrey, because he has your eyes.”

“You cannot reason me out of my senses.  This Anthony is as like you, Algernon, as two peas.  He is your own son, and you are welcome to him.  His absence will give me no pain, nor will his adoption by you extort from me one farthing for his future maintenance.  If you persist in taking him it will be at your own risk.”

“I am contented to accept the poor orphan on these terms,” said the generous Algernon.  “May God soften your iron heart towards your neglected child.  While I have wealth he shall not want; and were I deprived of it to-morrow, he should share my bread while I have a crust.”

“Fools and their money are soon parted,” muttered the ungracious Mark; though in reality he was glad to embrace his brother’s offer.  No ties of paternal love bound him to the motherless child he had so cruelly neglected; and the father and son parted with mutual satisfaction, secretly hoping that they never might behold each other again.

“We have got rid of that pest, Grenard!” exclaimed the hard-hearted man, as he watched his brother lift the little Anthony into his saddle, and carefully dispose the folds of his cloak around the child to hide his rags from public observation.  “If the child were not his own, would he take such care of him?”