n," said reason, "if you take the first step, you are guilty of
an unpardonable sin, and by destroying yourself, further the sinister
views of your uncle. If the second, you throw away seven years of hard
labour, lose your indentures, and for ever place a bar on your future
advancement. In a few months you will be of age, and your own master.
Bear these evils patiently a little longer--wait and watch: you never
can regain your lost name and inheritance by throwing yourself
friendless upon the world."

Determined to adopt, and strictly to adhere to this line of conduct,
and leave the rest to Providence, I washed the traces of tears from my
face and returned to the private office.

Here I found Mr. Moncton engaged with papers of consequence.

He held out his hand as I took my seat at the desk. "Are we friends,
Geoffrey?"

"That depends upon circumstances" said I.

"How hard it is for you to give a gracious answer," he replied. "It is
your own fault that we ever were otherwise."

"I will try and think you my friend for the time to come."

He seemed more amused than surprised at this concession, and for some
time we both wrote on in silence.

A tap at the door, and one of the clerks handed in a letter.

Mr. Moncton examined the post-mark and eagerly opened it up. While
reading, his countenance underwent one of those remarkable changes I
had on several occasions witnessed of late, and which seemed so foreign
to his nature.

Suddenly crushing the letter tightly in his hand, he flung it from him
to the floor, and spurned it with his foot, exclaiming as he did so,
with a fiend-like curl of the lip: "So would I serve the writer were he
here!" Then turning to me, and speaking in a low confidential tone, he
said:

"The writer of that letter is unconsciously making your fortune,
Geoffrey. This son of mine has acted in a base, ungrateful manner to
me--in a manner which I can never forget or forgive. If you conduct
yourself prudently, you may become dearer to me than this wicked young
man."

"I should be sorry to rise on my cousin's ruin. I would rather gain
your respect on any other terms."

This remark made him wince.

"Foolish boy! How blind you are to your own interest. You belong to a
family famous for playing the fool. It runs in the blood of the
Monctons."

Starting from his seat, he paced the room for some minutes, as if in
deep communion with himself.

"Geoffrey," said he at last, "from this day I adopt