After his interview with the lawyer, Lewis took his way home; his heart alternately cheered with hope, or disturbed by apprehension. On the whole, however, hope predominated. It was based on the knowledge that neither his uncle nor his cousin were men of business, and at this moment both would have too many other things to think of to recur to that which he dreaded.

As he opened the outer door, he met a servant in the hall.

“How is my uncle, now, Jane?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir; I haven’t been up stairs since you went away.”

“Is my—is the gentleman that came in a little while ago still here?” he inquired, anxiously.

“Yes, sir, I think so; I haven’t seen him go out.”

“Have you heard any talking? I am afraid my uncle will be too much excited by a visitor at this time.”

“I heard a faint murmur like as if they were talking awhile ago, but I haven’t heard anything for a few minutes. May I be so bold as to ask if the gentleman is a relation, sir?”

“Yes,” said Lewis, shortly. “You say you have heard no sound proceeding from the room for a few minutes?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps he is dead,” thought Lewis, hopefully. “At any rate, I will go up and see.”

“That will do,” he said to the servant, who was still in waiting. “I am going up into my uncle’s room, and if I should want you I will ring.”

“I wonder who the gentleman is,” said the servant, to herself. “He said Mr. Rand was his father. I never heard that he had a son, for my part. If he is, I suppose he will inherit the property. I wonder how Mr. Lewis will like that. Well, I don’t much care if he is disappointed, for I don’t like him, and never did.”

The dictatorial manner of Lewis had not gained him friends among the servants, and none of them could be expected to feel a very profound sorrow for any reverses which fate might have in store for him.

Lewis Rand softly ascended the stairs, and entered his uncle’s bed-chamber.

It needed only a glance to assure him that his wish was granted. His heart leaped with exultation at the thought. This was the only thing which could give him a perfect sense of security. Now, by the substitution of the forged will, he felt that his interests were secured. The estate was his beyond the possibility of a transfer.

Now that his cousin was no longer to be feared as a rival, he felt that it would be both safe and politic, to treat him with a degree of consideration. This course would be likely to mislead suspicion, if any should be excited, when it was found, as it soon would be, that his cousin shared no portion of his father’s princely estate.

“My uncle sleeps?” he said, inquiringly, as he entered the chamber.

“Yes,” said Robert, solemnly, lifting up a wan face from the bed-clothes in which it was buried; “the sleep that knows no waking.”

Apparently much shocked at this intelligence, Lewis started back with an ejaculation of sorrow.

“I ought not to feel surprised,” he said, in a low voice; “it is an event which I have been expecting and fearing for many weeks. Yet its actual coming finds me unprepared.”

With his mournful gaze intently fixed upon the old man’s face, Robert paid little heed to his cousin’s words. Thoughts of the long weary years that had intervened since he parted from his father, then in the strength and pride of that manhood, upon which he himself was just entering, and the changes that had since come over each, till the present sad moment brought them together, crowded upon him with a force which he could not resist, and he sat there, looking straight before him, vainly endeavoring to reconcile the past with the present, till he was tempted to think the past eighteen years but a dream, from which he would ere long awake.

It did not take him long to recover from that delusion.

As he lifted his eyes he met his own reflection in the mirror opposite. That was no young man’s face that met his gaze. The freshness of youth, had given place to the grave careworn look of later years. The once dark hair was threaded here and there with silver. The smooth brow was sown with premature wrinkles. The cheek had lost its bloom, and was now thin and sallow. In all this there was no deception. But even if this had not been sufficient, he had but to look towards the bed, to realize how time had passed. That thin, shrunken old man who lay there—was that his father? No, there was no mistaking all this; these years of estrangement were no vain imaginings; they were all too sad realities.

And there, but a few steps from him, sat, with a look of hypocritical sorrow, the man who had lent his best efforts to widen the breach, of which he had been the cause, and throw up a permanent wall of separation between the father and the son. He had changed least of the three. There was the same plausible smile, the same crafty look about the eyes that seldom met your gaze. There were no wrinkles to be seen on his brow. Neither had his heart changed. It was as full of subtlety and evil thoughts and plans as ever.

Lewis Rand had changed least of the three, yet, of them all, he was farthest removed from the freshness and simplicity of childhood, that had never been his. He was one of those who seem never to have been young.

“Cousin Robert,” said Lewis, with an air of grave courtesy, “although our grief is so fresh that all other thoughts seem intrusive, yet there are certain things that must be thought of. It is right and proper that you should participate with me in paying the last offices of respect and affection to our lamented relative. You were nearer to him than I. It is fitting that, from you, should proceed the orders relative to the funeral.”

“It is a right which I have no disposition to exercise. I would much rather leave it entirely in your hands. My mind is not in a fit state to enter upon such arrangements.”

“You have stated my own case,” said Lewis, in a voice of well-counterfeited emotion. “The death of my dear uncle, for whom I cherished so deep an affection, and to whom I am indebted for so many acts of kindness, weighs most heavily upon my heart. Nothing but an imperative sense of duty would enable me to bear up under it. But I will, if you desire it, so far overcome my grief, as to give the necessary directions.”

“I shall be glad to have you do so,” said Robert, briefly. There had been a time when he would not have questioned his cousin’s sincerity, but gratefully accepted his proffered sympathy,—when his own heart would have been soothed by this companionship in grief. But the revelation of his cousin’s perfidy had been too recent,—the memory of his wrongs was too fresh. He might, in time, forgive, but he could not at once forget. He did not look towards his cousin, but his eyes were fixed continually upon the father from whom he had been separated for eighteen years,—from whom the grave must soon separate him, till he too lay as still and motionless as his father now lay, outstretched before him.

Lewis was about to leave the room, when he paused, as if struck by a sudden thought.

“Pardon me,” he said, hesitatingly, “but this unhappy separation has left us so much in ignorance of each other, that I am not informed whether you have children.”

“I have one daughter.”

“And your wife?”

“Is no longer living.”

“Will you leave me your direction, that I may send a carriage?”

“It will not be necessary. We will take a carriage from here.”

“As you please. One thing more. Pardon me if I am wrong, for I know nothing of your circumstances; you may require a sum of money to procure proper mourning.”

“It is needless,” said Robert, briefly. “We are sufficiently provided.”

“Proud as ever!” muttered Lewis, to himself. “We’ll see how long that continues. If I am not greatly mistaken, he will be glad enough to avail himself of my offers before long.”

Meanwhile, Helen had reached home, and was wondering what had detained her father so long. He had gone out with Mr. Sharp, not mentioning where he was going.

She began to be afraid that, in one of his not unusual fits of abstraction, he had met with some accident, perhaps been run over by some passing vehicle, while crossing the street.

“Where can he be?” she was asking, anxiously, for the tenth time at least, when, to her great joy, she at length heard his familiar step upon the stairs.

She hastened to the door, exclaiming, “Why, papa, why have you been gone so long?”

She looked into his face, and suddenly stopped short. She saw, by his expression, that something had happened.

“What is the matter, papa?” she asked, apprehensively.

“We have met with a great misfortune, Helen,” said Mr. Ford, gravely.

“A great misfortune! Has your invention then failed?”

“It is not that, Helen. Did you ever hear me speak of your grandfather?”

“No.”

“I will tell you the reason now. There had been a long and unhappy alienation between us,—longer, I have since found, than there need to have been, if we could only have met and had a mutual understanding. I married against my father’s wishes. If he had once seen your mother, Helen, he would, I am sure, have withdrawn all his opposition. As it was, we separated eighteen years ago, and to-day we met for the last time.”

“But the misfortune, papa?”

“We met at his death-bed, Helen; but, thank Heaven, not too late for a full reconciliation. An hour since, your grandfather died, with his hand clasped in mine. The funeral takes place day after to-morrow. We must procure fitting dresses. I do not understand such things, but you can consult with Martha.”

Helen wished to learn more of her grandfather, of whom she now, for the first time, heard; but she saw and respected her father’s grief, and forebore to question him.