fecting a patronizing air; "I am
sorry to take you from such pleasant company, but business, you know,
cannot be neglected. This bundle of papers," (and he took a packet from
his wallet and placed in my hand), "must be transcribed to-night. You
need not go to the office. Step into the study, you will find all that
you require there."

This was but a stratagem to get rid of my unwelcome presence. I bowed
to Sir Alexander, and reluctantly withdrew.

It so happened, that Mr. Moncton's study opened into the dining-room,
and without meaning to do so, I left the door but partially closed.

Sitting down to the table, I trimmed the large shaded lamp that always
burnt there, and began mechanically to transcribe the uninteresting
papers. An hour passed away. The gentlemen were conversing upon the
current news of the day over their wine. The servant brought up coffee,
and I ceased to give any heed to what was passing in the next room.

I was drawing out a long deed of settlement, when my attention was
aroused by the mention of my own name, and the following dialogue
caught my ear:

"This nephew of yours, Robert Moncton, is a fine lad. How is it that I
never heard of him before?"

"I did not think it necessary to introduce him to your notice, Sir
Alexander. He has no legal claim upon our protection. He is a natural
son of Edward's, whom I educate for the profession out of charity."

"An act of benevolence hardly to be expected from you," said Sir
Alexander with a provoking sneer. "I suppose you expect to get the
interest for your kindness out of the lad?"

"Why, yes! He has excellent abilities, and might do much for himself,
but is too like the father, but with this difference, Edward was
good-natured and careless to a fault; this boy is haughty and petulant,
with the unmanageable obstinacy and self-will of old Geoffrey. He is
not grateful for the many obligations he owes to me, and gives me
frequent cause to regret that I ever adopted him into my family."

"When you are tired of him," said Sir Alexander, carelessly, "you may
turn him over to me. I am sure I could make something of him."

"You are not in earnest?" in a tone of surprise.

"Never more so."

A long silence ensued. My hand trembled with indignation. Was this Mr.
Moncton's pretended friendship? I tried in vain to write. "It is
useless," I said mentally. "The deed may go to the devil, and Robert
Moncton along with it, for what I care," and I flung the parch