to vote on the right side. Didn't
we make a convert of you, Brian and I, years before people talked of
Free-trade; long before he went out, and I got married to mamma there?
Eh, Brian, my lad"--and he patted his youngest boy, throned on
Mr. Harper's knee--"if you only grow up such a wise man as your
grand-uncle!"

Agatha was amused to see how the idea and recollection of Uncle Brian
had permeated through every branch of the Harper family. Almost every
family has some such personage, mythical, sublime, exciting the wonder
and hero-worship of all the young people. Little Brian opened wide his
large grey eyes at the mention of his honoured namesake.

But while he gazed, his papa's pudding-laden spoon stopped half-way on
its journey to the baby-mouth that was waiting for it--Duke Dugdale was
in a reverie. He did not even hear the little clamourer on his knee.

"Really, now, that's very odd, very odd indeed." And he felt anxiously
in his pocket. "No, I had another coat on that day--mamma, where's my
grey overcoat?"

"Duke--what on earth are you talking about? Now, Agatha, confess--isn't
my husband the very vaguest, mistiest man you ever knew? Oh, you dear
old visionary, what do you want with grey overcoats at dinner-time?"

He smiled patiently--perhaps he did not even hear--put down his little
girl, and walked out of the room, his wife anxiously jumping up and
following with some pathetic exclamation about "Duke's being so cross!"
Which seemed to Agatha the most amusing exaggeration possible.

In a minute or two this most opposite couple--opposite, but fitting like
a dovetailed joint--came in merrily together, Harrie holding a letter.

"Would you believe, he got it last week, has been carrying it about ever
since, and never thought of it! There, Nathanael, it's yours! Devour
it!"

"From Uncle Brian!" cried the young man. At which name there ran a great
sensation throughout the family, in all but Miss Valery, who still kept
her chair.

"News! news!" cried Harrie, Agatha and the boys gathering round. Mr.
Dugdale walked up and down the room--his hands behind him--smiling in
benevolent content at everybody and at nobody. Brian and his tiny sister
consoled themselves for the little attention they got by slily climbing
on the table and embedding their fingers in the rice-pudding.

Nathanael read the letter aloud, as seemed to be the family custom with
Uncle Brian's correspondence.

"My dear Boy," I find the Western