f without my appearing personally on
the scene. And so it has turned out. You have read my note, I see; and
no one has been in communication with the writer but yourself. This is
as it should be. And now, may I ask, do you know me? or at any rate, do
you guess who I am? for we have not seen each other, I believe, before
yesterday evening."

"I do not know your name," replied Amos sadly; "but I cannot say that I
have no suspicion as to who you are."

"Exactly so," replied the other; "I am, in fact, none other than your
brother-in-law, or, if you like it better, your sister Julia's husband."

"I have feared so," replied Amos.

"Feared!" exclaimed his companion in a tone of displeasure. "Well, be
it so. I am aware that our marriage was not to the taste of the
Huntingdons, so we have kept out of the way of the family as much as
possible; and, indeed, I believe that your father has never even known
the name of his daughter's husband, but simply the fact of her
marriage."

"I believe so," said Amos; "at any rate, all that has been known by the
family generally has been that she married"--here he hesitated; but the
other immediately added,--

"Beneath her, you would say. Be it so, again. Well, you may as well
know my name yourself, at any rate, for convenience' sake. It is, at
your service, Orlando Vivian. Shall I go on?"

"If you please."

"You are aware, then, of course, that I deserted your sister, as it is
called, for a time; the fact being, that we discovered after marriage
that our tastes and habits of thought were very dissimilar, and that we
should be happier apart, at least for a season. And in the meantime you
stepped in, and have acted very nobly, I must say, in taking charge of
my two little children, for which I must tender you my best thanks."

There was a brief pause, and then Amos inquired anxiously, "Is it your
intention to take the children from me?"

"Well, not necessarily, but perhaps so; certainly not the girl, at
present, unless you yourself wish it."

"And the boy?" asked Amos.

"Ah, I have not quite made up my mind about him," was the reply. "It
may be that I shall keep him with me, and bring him up to my own
profession."

"And what may that profession be?" asked the other.

"The stage," was the reply.

"What!" exclaimed Amos in a tone of horror, "bring up the poor child to
be an actor! Why, it will be his ruin, body and soul!"

"And if so, Mr Huntingdon," said the othe