“Madame,” said the Congressman, “will you permit me to make the suggestion that your daughter is already a woman and needs a father’s care, if she is ever to receive it.  I beseech you to impress this subject upon the Judge.  His estates cannot be more precious to his heart, if he is a man of honor; nay, what is better than honor, his duty requires him to come to the side of these children, though he be ever so constrained by business or pleasure to attend to more worldly concerns.”

“The Judge,” exclaimed Mrs. Basil, much miffed, “is a man of hereditary ijees, Colonel Reybold.  He is now in pursuit of the—­ahem!—­the Kinvas-back on his ancestral waters.  If he should hear that you suggested a pacific life and the grovelling associations of the capital for him, he might call you out, sir!”

Reybold said no more; but one evening when Mrs. Basil was absent, called across the Potomac, as happened frequently, at the summons of the Judge—­and on such occasions she generally requested a temporary loan or a slight advance of board—­Reybold found Joyce Basil in the little parlor of the dwelling.  She was alone and in tears, but the little boy Uriel slept before the chimney-fire on a rug, and his pale, thin face, catching the glow of the burning wood, looked beautified as Reybold addressed the young woman.

“Miss Joyce,” he said, “our little brother works too hard.  Is there never to be relief for him?  His poor, withered body, slung on those crutches for hours and hours, racing up the aisles of the House with stronger pages, is wearing him out.  His ambition is very interesting to see, but his breath is growing shorter and his strength is frailer every week.  Do you know what it will lead to?”

“O my Lord!” she said, in the negrofied phrase natural to her latitude, “I wish it was no sin to wish him dead.”

“Tell me, my friend,” said Reybold, “can I do nothing to assist you both?  Let me understand you.  Accept my sympathy and confidence.  Where is Uriel’s father?  What is this mystery?”

She did not answer.

“It is for no idle curiosity that I ask,” he continued.  “I will appeal to him for his family, even at the risk of his resentment.  Where is he?”

“Oh, do not ask!” she exclaimed.  “You want me to tell you only the truth.  He is there!”

She pointed to one of the old portraits in the room—­a picture fairly painted by some provincial artist—­and it revealed a handsome face, a little voluptuous but aristocratic, the shoulders clad in a martial cloak, the neck in ruffles and ruffles, also and a diamond in the shirt bosom.  Reybold studied it with all his mind.

“Then it is no fiction,” he said, “that you have a living father, one answering to your mother’s description.  Where have I seen that face?  Has some irreparable mistake, some miserable controversy, alienated him from his wife?  Has he another family?”

She answered with spirit: