ith a heightened colour and an air of excited surprise,
which left Dr. Owen no doubt as to the reality of his feelings. They
were not, however, altogether real, for Will had latterly begun to
suspect the true meaning of his uncle's kindness to him.

"There is only one thing to be said, sir. Did it clash with my own
plans there would be no sacrifice too great for me to make in return
for your kindness. But you must know, uncle, that not only the ties of
gratitude compel me, but the bonds of relationship and affection (may I
say love) are strong upon me, and I can only answer once more that I
accept your generosity with the deepest gratitude. I little thought a
year ago that I should ever feel towards you as I do now. I felt a
foolish, boyish resentment at the enstrangement between you and my
father, but now I am wiser, I see the reason of it. I know how
impossible it would be to combine the social duties of a man in your
position with continued intimate relations with your old home. The
impossibility of it even now hampers me, uncle, and I feel that it will
be well for me to break away from the old surroundings if I am ever to
make my way up the ladder of life. Your generous intentions towards me
smooth this difficulty, and I can only thank you again, uncle, from my
heart. I hope my conduct through life may be such that you will never
regret the step you have taken, certainly I shall endeavour to make it
so."

"Agreed, my boy!" said the Dr., holding out his hand, which Will
grasped warmly, "we understand each other, from this time forward you
are my adopted son; the matter is settled, let us say no more about
it," and for a few moments the two men followed the train of their own
thoughts in silence.

"How plainly we hear the On to-night," said Will, "it seems to fill the
air. Shall I close the window?"

"Yes," said Dr. Owen, "if you like, Will; I have never heard it so
plainly before. There is something solemn at all times in the sound;
but to you it can bring no sad memories from the days gone bye, you
have so lately left that wonderful past, which, as we grow older,
becomes ever more and more bathed in the golden tints of imagination,
'that light which never was on sea or land.' You owe something to
those rushing waters, Will, for while I sat here alone one evening,
they flooded my soul with old and tender memories, and bore in upon me
the advisability of the offer which I have just made you, and to whi