sitting near the stairs, half asleep again. Most of the guests were in
the supper-room, but a few of the younger portion were dancing, and the
strains of music were heard with great distinctness in the upper hall.

'Ugh!' Arthur said, with a shiver, as he stopped a moment to listen,
while his quick eye took in every detail of the furniture and its
arrangement in the hall. 'That violinist ought to be hung--the pianist,
too! Don't they know what horrid discord they are making? It brings that
heat back. I believe, upon my soul, I shall have to bathe my face
again.'

Suiting the action to the word, he went back and washed his face for the
third time; then returning to the hall, he advanced toward Harold, who
was now wide awake and stood up to meet him. As Arthur met the
clear-brown eyes fixed so curiously upon him, he stopped suddenly, and
put his hand to his head as if trying to recall something; then going a
step or two nearer to Harold, he said:

'Well, my little boy, what are you doing up here?'

'Telling the folks which way to go,' was Harold's answer.

'Who are you?' Arthur continued. 'What is your name?'

'Harold Hastings,' was the reply; and instantly there came over the
white, thin face, and into the large, bright eyes, an expression which
made the boy stand back a little as the tall man came up to him and,
laying a hand on his shoulder, said, excitedly:

'Harold Hastings! He was once my friend, or, I thought he was; but I
hate him now. And he was your father, and Amy Crawford was your mother?
_N'est ce pas?_ Answer me!'

'Yes, sir--yes, sir; but I don't know what you mean by "_na-se par_,"'
Harold said, in a frightened voice; and Arthur continued, as he
tightened his grasp on his shoulder:

'Don't you know you ought to have been my son, instead of his?'

'Yes, sir--yes, sir; I'll never do so again,' Harold stammered, too much
alarmed now to know what he was saying, or of what he was accused.

'No, you never will do it again. I hated your father, and I hate you,
and I am going to throw you over the stair railing!' Arthur said, and
seizing Harold's coat-collar, he swung him over the banister as if he
had been a feather, while the boy struggled and fought, and held onto
the rails, until help appeared in the person of Frank Tracy, who came
swiftly up the stairs, demanding the cause of what he saw.

He had been standing near the drawing-room door, and had caught the
sound of his brother's voice and Harol