"But I have no one to love me, Hugo," said the old man, plaintively, "no one of my own blood. My son is dead, and his son—do you know, Hugo," he continued in a different voice, "I cannot get out of my mind that boy we saw in the circus?"
Hugo shrugged his shoulder, but did not venture to express the annoyance he felt.
"You mean the—the O'Connor boy," he said indifferently.
"O'Connor!" replied his uncle, in surprise. "You told me his name was Oliver Brown."
"Did I?" said Hugo, flushing. "Oh, well, I had forgotten. The name didn't impress me. I thought he was an Irish boy."
"You said he was born in Montreal, and that his parents lived there now."
"Oh, well, no doubt you are right, uncle: you know I didn't take as much interest in him as you—"
"True, Hugo; but surely you could detect the wonderful resemblance to my son Julian."
"I can't say I did, uncle; but probably we looked at him with different eyes."