He became thoughtful and reserved, and applied more intensely to his studies, to shut out what he considered the ungracious, ungrateful conviction that he was a beggar in the house of his good uncle.  Godfrey had already calculated the expense of his board and education, for he had more than once hinted to him, that when he came in for his miserly father’s wealth, in common justice he ought to repay to him what his romantically generous uncle had expended upon him.  Anthony had solemnly averred that such should indeed be the case, and again had been tauntingly answered—­“Wait until it is yours; you will then tell a different tale.”  But now he had dared to reproach him in his uncle’s presence; and it was more than the high-spirited youth could bear.

“Father, cruel, unnatural father!” he exclaimed, as he raised his head from between his hands; “why have you subjected your unfortunate son to insults like these?”

“Who insults you, my dear Anthony?” said the Colonel, who had followed him unobserved, and who now stood beside him.  “A rash, impetuous, thoughtless boy, who never reflects upon what he says; and who, in spite of all his faults, loves you.”

“When you speak, uncle, I am silent.  I am sorry that you witnessed this burst of discontent.  When I think upon all that I owe to you, my heart is bankrupt in thanks; I never can repay your kindness, and the thought—­the consciousness of such overwhelming obligations makes me unhappy.”

“I read your heart, Anthony,” said the Colonel seating himself beside him.  “I know all that you would say, and cannot utter; and I, instead of you become the debtor.”

“Your goodness, uncle, makes me feel ashamed of being angry with my cousin.  I wish I could forget the unfortunate circumstances in which I am placed; that you were my father instead of him who has disowned me—­that my whole heart and soul could cling to you.”

He rose hastily and flung himself into the Colonel’s arms.  His head was buried in his bosom, and by the convulsive heaving of the young heart against his own, Algernon knew that the lad was weeping.  His own eyes became moist,—­he pressed him warmly against his manly breast.

“You are my son, Anthony—­the son of her who received my early vows—­of her who ought to have been my wife.  Her heart was mine; and though another claims your earthly part, you are the son of my soul—­of my adoption.  Henceforth let no sense of obligation exist between us.”

“I take you at your word, beloved father, and if love can repay love, in my poor heart you have no rival.”

“I know it, Anthony; but since you talk of wishing to be out of my debt, there is a way in which you can more than repay me.”

He paused; Anthony raised his earnest eyes to his face.  “Not only by forgiving my dear petulant Godfrey, but by continuing his friend.  I know that I have spoilt him—­that he has many faults, but I think his heart is sound.  As he grows older, he will know better how to value your character.  Promise me, Anthony, that, when I am dust, your love for me may survive for my son.”