He meant to love and take care of him; to be a father to him in the fullest sense of the word; his intentions doubtless were good, but his method of bringing him up was very likely to be followed by bad consequences.  Algernon had no misgivings on the subject.  He felt certain that the boy would not only inherit his father’s immense wealth, (a large portion of which the law secured to him, independent of the caprice of his father,) but ever continue prosperous and happy.  While musing upon these things, his horse turned into the park that surrounded his own fine mansion, and a beautiful boy bounded down the broad stone steps that led to the hall-door, and came running along the moonlit path to meet him,

     “Health on his cheek, and gladness in his eye.”

“Well, dear papa!  Have you brought me my cousin?”

“What will you give for him, Godfrey?” and the delighted father bent down to receive the clasp of the white arms, and the kiss of the impatient child.

“That’s all I can afford.  Perhaps he’s not worth having after all;” and the spoilt child turned pettishly away.

Casting his eyes upon old Shock, he exclaimed, “Mercy! what an ugly dog.  A perfect brute!”

“He was once a very handsome dog,” said his father, as the groom assisted him to alight.

“It must be, a long time ago.  I hope my cousin is better-looking than his dog.”

“Why, what in the world have we got here?” said Mrs. Paisley, the housekeeper, who came to the door to welcome her master home; and into whose capacious arms the footman placed the sleeping Anthony, enveloped in his uncle’s cloak.

“A present for you, Mrs. Paisley,” said Algernon, “and one that I hope you will regard with peculiar care.”

“A child!” screamed the good woman.  “Why, la, sir; how did you come by it?”

“Honestly,” returned Algernon, laughing.

“Let me look at him,” cried the eager Godfrey, as soon as they entered the room where supper was prepared for his father; and pulling the cloak away from his cousin’s face,—­“Is this dirty shabby boy the playfellow you promised me, papa?”

“The same.”

“And he in rags!”

“That’s no fault of his, my child.”

“And has a torn cap, and no shoes!”

“Mrs. Paisley will soon wash, and dress, and make him quite smart; and then you will be proud of him.”

“Well, we shall see,” replied the boy, doubtingly.  “But I never was fond of playing with dirty ragged children.  But why is he dirty and ragged?  I thought you told me, papa, that he was the son of my rich, rich uncle, and that he would have twice as much money as I?”

“And so he will.”

“Then why is he in this condition?”

“His father is a miser.”

“What is that?”

“A man that loves money better than his son; who would rather see him ragged and dirty, nay even dead, than expend upon his comfort a part of his useless riches.  Are you not glad that your father is not a miser?”