ed through a sickly childhood, and was growing up with a feeble
constitution. Body and mind were alike unhealthy. Of all the people who
came in contact with her, her father alone was blind to her distorted
sense of right, her baseless resentments, her malicious pleasures, her
depraved intellect. His affection she repaid with indifference. At
present, the only person she appeared to really like was the servant
Sarah, a girl of vicious character.

Harriet had suffered more from Ida's blow than had at first appeared
likely. The wound would not heal well, and she had had several feverish
nights. For her convenience, the couch had been drawn up between the
fire and the table; and, reclining here, she every now and then threw
out a petulant word in reply to her father's or Julian's well-meant
cheerfulness. But for the boy, the gloomy silence would seldom have
been broken. He, however, was full to-night of a favourite subject, and
kept up a steady flow of bright 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