e sight of the poor blind worn-out creature brought back to
his mind so many painful recollections that his own eyes were wet with
tears. The wife who had supplanted Elinor in his affections was dead.
The grass grew rank upon Elinor's nameless grave; and her poor boy was
sleeping within his sheltering arms, as if he had never known so soft a
pillow.

Algernon looked down upon his beautiful but squalid face, and pressing
his lips upon his pale brow, swore to love and cherish him as his own;
and well did that careless but faithful heart keep its solemn covenant.
The very reverse of the miser, Algernon was reckless of the future; he
only lived for the present, which, after his disappointment in regard to
Elinor, was all, he said, that a man in truth could call his own. Acting
up to this principle, he was as much censured for his extravagance, as
his brother was for his parsimony, by those persons who, like Timon's
friends, daily shared his hospitality, and were too often the recipients
of his lavish expenditure. In adopting the little Anthony, he had
followed the generous impulse of his heart, without reflecting that the
separation of father and son, under their peculiar circumstances, might
injure without ultimately benefiting the child.

He meant to love and take care of him; to be a father to him in the
fullest sense of the word; his intentions doubtless were good, but his
method of bringing him up was very likely to be followed by bad
consequences. Algernon had no misgivings on the subject. He felt certain
that the boy would not only inherit his father's immense wealth, (a
large portion of which the law secured to him, independent of the
caprice of his father,) but ever continue prosperous and happy. While
musing upon these things, his horse turned into the park that surrounded
his own fine mansion, and a beautiful boy bounded down the broad stone
steps that led to the hall-door, and came running along the moonlit path
to meet him,

"Health on his cheek, and gladness in his eye."

"Well, dear papa! Have you brought me my cousin?"

"What will you give for him, Godfrey?" and the delighted father bent
down to receive the clasp of the white arms, and the kiss of the
impatient child.

"That's all I can afford. Perhaps he's not worth having after all;" and
the spoilt child turned pettishly away.

Casting his eyes upon old Shock, he exclaimed, "Mercy! what an ugly dog.
A perfect brute!"

"He was once a very han