"What ails you, Anthony?" said the good-natured uncle, as he took a seat by the table.
"I don't know," returned the lad; "I felt afraid"—he hesitated—
"Afraid of what?"
"That you were tired of me—wished me to leave you."
"I should much sooner be tired of myself. Don't you know, perverse boy, how dearly I love you;" and he put his arm round the stripling and drew him to his breast. "Godfrey himself is not more dear, son of my murdered Elinor—son of my heart."
There was a long pause; at length the Colonel said, "It was of your father that I wished to speak. We have let eight years pass away without holding the least intercourse with him; in this, I think we have been to blame. The first year you came to me I wrote to him twice, informing him how you were, and suggesting your future mode of education. To my first letter I received the following answer:—
'To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq.
'In adopting my son you pleased yourself. Had he remained with me I should have provided for him. As matters at present stand, I neither wish to be troubled with letters from him nor from you. When you next write I would thank you to pay the post.
'Yours, &c.,
'Marcus Hurdlestone.'