narrative.  At school he was much engaged just now with the history of Rome, and it was his greatest delight to tell the listeners at home the glorious stories which were his latest acquisitions.  All to-day he had been reading Plutarch.  The enthusiasm with which he spoke of these old heroes and their deeds went beyond mere boyish admiration of valour and delight in bloodshed; he seemed to be strongly sensible of the real features of greatness in these men’s lives, and invested his stories with a glow of poetical colour which found little appreciation in either of his hearers.

“And I was born in Rome, wasn’t I, uncle?” he exclaimed at last. “I am a Roman; Romanus sum!”

Then he laughed with his wonted bright gleefulness.  It was half in jest, but for all that there was a genuine warmth on his cheek, and lustre in his fine eyes.

“Some day I will go to Rome again,” he said, “and both of you shall go with me.  We shall see the Forum and the Capitol!  Sha’n’t you shout when you see the Capitol, uncle?”

Poor Smales only smiled sadly and shook his head.  It was a long way from Marylebone to Rome; greater still the distance between the boy’s mind and that of his uncle.

Sarah took Harriet to bed early.  Julian had got hold of his Plutarch again, and read snatches of it aloud every now and then.  His uncle paid no heed, was sunk in dull reverie.  When they had sat thus for more than an hour, Mr. Smales began to exhibit a wish to talk.

“Put the book away, and draw up to the fire, my boy,” he said, with as near an approach to heartiness as he was capable of.  “It’s Christmas time, and Christmas only comes once a year.”

He rubbed his palms together, then began to twist the corners of his handkerchief.

“Well, Julian,” he went on, leaning feebly forward to the fire, “a year more school, I suppose, and then—­business; what?”

“Yes, uncle.”

The boy spoke cheerfully, but yet not in the same natural way as before.

“I wish I could afford to make you something better, my lad; you ought to be something better by rights.  And I don’t well know what you’ll find to do in this little shop.  The business might be better; yes, might be better.  You won’t have much practice in dispensing, I’m afraid, unless things improve.  It is mostly hair-oil,—­and the patent medicines.  It’s a poor look-out for you, Julian.”

There was a silence.

“Harriet isn’t quite well yet, is she?” Smales went on, half to himself.

“No, she looked poorly to-night.”

“Julian,” began the other, but paused, rubbing his hands more nervously than ever.

“Yes, uncle?”

“I wonder what ’ud become of her if I—­if I died now?  You’re growing up, and you’re a clever lad; you’ll soon be able to shift for yourself.  But what’ll Harriet do?  If only she had her health.  And I shall have nothing to leave either her or you, Julian,—­ nothing,—­nothing!  She’ll have to get her living somehow.  I must think of some easy business for her, I must.  She might be a teacher, but her head isn’t strong enough, I fear.  Julian—­”