Harry grew red in the face, and then burst into a laugh.—"We've been such good brothers to each other!"
The thought which had been working at Randolph's heart for hours, now found utterance in words,—
"Brother, O, brother! why can we not indeed be brothers?" his eyes flashed, his voice was deep and impassioned. "Children of one father, let us forget the past; let us bury all bitter memories, all feelings of hatred,—let us forget, forgive, and be as brothers to each other. Harry Royalton, my brother, there is my hand."
He rose,—his chest heaving, his eyes dimmed by tears,—and reached forth his hand.
Harry, completely overwhelmed by this unexpected appeal, reached forth his hand, but drew it back again.
"No," he cried, as his face was flushed,—"not with a nigger." The contempt, the scorn, the rage which convulsed his face, as he said these words, cannot be depicted.
[CHAPTER III.]
THE HUSBAND AND THE PROFLIGATE.
The boat was upon the river, borne onward over the wintery waves and through the floating ice, by the strong arms of two sturdy oarsmen.