Even in the midst of his anguish, the question gave the Master of Greylands a sharp sting. "What do you know about Anthony Castlemaine?" he rejoined.
"He was my--dear friend," spoke George in agitation. "If you would but tell me, sir, what became of him! Is he really dead?"
"Oh that he were not dead!" cried Mr. Castlemaine, unmanned by the past remembrances, the present pain. "He would have been some one to care for; I could have learnt to love him as my nephew. I have no one left now."
"You have still a nephew, sir!" returned George, deeply agitated, a sure conviction seating itself within him at the last words, that whatever might have been the adverse fate of Anthony, the sorrowing man before him had not helped to induce it. "A nephew who will ask nothing better than to serve you in all affection and duty--if you will but suffer him."
Mr. Castlemaine looked keenly at the speaker in the evening's gloaming. "Where is this nephew?" he inquired after a pause.
"I am he, sir. I am George Castlemaine."
"You?"
"Yes, Uncle James--if I may dare so to address you. I am poor Anthony's brother."
"And my brother Basil's son?"
"His younger son, Uncle James. They named me George North."