John Linden’s face brightened up
“You, too, believe it possible, Florence?” he said, eagerly.
“Yes, uncle. I not only believe it possible, but probable. How old would Harvey be if he still lived?”
“Eighteen—nearly a year older than yourself.”
“How strange! I always think of him as a little boy.”
“And I, too, Florence. He rises before me in his little velvet suit, as he was when I last saw him, with his sweet, boyish face, in which his mother’s looks were reflected.”
“Yet, if still living,” interrupted Curtis, harshly, “he is a rough street boy, perchance serving his time at Blackwell’s Island, and, a hardened young ruffian, whom it would be bitter mortification to recognize as your son.”
“That’s the sorrowful part of it,” said his uncle, in a voice of anguish. “That is what I most dread.”
“Then, since even if he were living you would not care to recognize him, why not cease to think of him, or else regard him as dead?”
“Curtis Waring, have you no heart?” demanded Florence, indignantly.