“I don’t know,” returned the lad; “I felt afraid”—­he hesitated—­

“Afraid of what?”

“That you were tired of me—­wished me to leave you.”

“I should much sooner be tired of myself.  Don’t you know, perverse boy, how dearly I love you;” and he put his arm round the stripling and drew him to his breast.  “Godfrey himself is not more dear, son of my murdered Elinor—­son of my heart.”

There was a long pause; at length the Colonel said, “It was of your father that I wished to speak.  We have let eight years pass away without holding the least intercourse with him; in this, I think we have been to blame.  The first year you came to me I wrote to him twice, informing him how you were, and suggesting your future mode of education.  To my first letter I received the following answer:—­

’To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq.

’In adopting my son you pleased yourself.  Had he remained with me I should have provided for him.  As matters at present stand, I neither wish to be troubled with letters from him nor from you.  When you next write I would thank you to pay the post.

Yours, &c.,

‘Marcus Hurdlestone.’

“Now, Tony, I was somewhat discouraged by this ungracious answer; however as I knew the man, I wrote to him again and did pay the post; I took no notice of the tenor of his letter, but merely informed him that I had put you to school, and that you were growing a fine clever lad.  Here is his reply:—­

’To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq.

’Next to receiving impertinent letters, I detest the trouble of
answering them.  I have no money to fling away upon fools and
foolscap.

‘Marcus Hurdlestone.’

“Now, my dear boy, although so far my applications to him on your behalf have been unsuccessful, I think it only right and prudent in you to write to him yourself, and remind this affectionate father that you are still in the land of the living.”

“And that you wish him,” said Godfrey, popping his head in at the door, where he had been an attentive listener for the last five minutes, “well out of it.”

Without heeding his cousin’s nonsense, Anthony answered his uncle with great simplicity, “Dear uncle, what can I say to him?”

“Faith, my dear boy, that’s more than I can tell you; just anything, the best you can.  Tell him that you wish to see him, that you are grown nearly into a man; that you wish him to name what profession he wishes you to pursue, as you are about to go to college.  But mark me, Tony say not one word about love, filial affection, and so forth; he’ll not believe you.  The more you attempt to court or conciliate such spirits as his—­spirits, did I say? the man’s all earth, hard unyielding clay—­the more they suspect you of sinister motives.  The honest bluntness of indignant truth is more likely to succeed.”

“I believe you, uncle, and without exercising any great mental ingenuity, my letter, I fear, will be a sad hypocritical affair.”