his
doubtless lay the secret of his perpetual youth. Care might sweep him
very close, but it could not enter an unwelcome guest, to sit on the
hearth of his holy of holies; into the innermost shrine of his being it
could scarcely find room to enter. His was the kind of nature to whom
remorse even for a sin committed must be almost unknown. His affections
were not his strong point. Most decidedly his intellect overbalanced his
heart. But without an undue preponderance of heart he was good-natured;
he would pat a chubby little cheek, if he passed it in the street, and
he would talk in a genial and hearty way to those beneath him in life.
In business matters he was considered very shrewd and hard, but those
who had no such dealings with him pronounced him a kindly soul. His
smile was genial; his manner frank and pleasant. He had one trick,
however, which no servant could bear--his step was as soft as a cat's;
he must be on your heels before you had the faintest clue to his
approach.

In this stealthy way he now left his niece's room, stole down the
thickly carpeted stairs, crept across a tiled hall, and entered the
apartment where his elder brother waited for him.

John Harman was only one year Jasper's senior, but there looked a much
greater difference between them. Jasper was young for his years; John
was old; nay, more--he was very old. In youth he must have been a
handsome man; in age for every one spoke of him as aged, he was handsome
still. He was tall, over six feet; his hair was silver-white; his eyes
very deep set, very dark. Their expression was penetrating, kind, but
sad. His mouth was firm, but had some lines round it which puzzled you.
His smile, which was rare and seldom seen, was a wintry one. You would
rather John Harman did not smile at you; you felt miserable afterwards.
All who knew him said instinctively that John Harman had known some
great trouble. Most people attributed it to the death of his wife, but,
as this happened twenty years ago, others shook their heads and felt
puzzled. Whatever the sorrow, however, which so perpetually clouded the
fine old face, the nature of the man was so essentially noble that he
was universally loved and respected.

John Harmon was writing a letter when his brother entered. He pushed
aside his writing materials, however, and raised his head with a sigh of
relief. In Jasper's presence there was always one element of comfort.
He need cover over no anxieties; his old f