"Have you been in a desert-island, Uncle
Carl?" he asked, sturdily.

"Yes. I have lived in one all my life."

''Who do you think Frank is like in the
face, Carl?" said his mother, to stop the
boy's questions, which he was evidently going
to propound with great earnestness. Carl
looked at him a few seconds, then averted
his eyes to the fire, and said, he could not
tell.

"We all think him very like his grandfather,
—don't you see the resemblance? Look again,"
persisted Alice, laying her hand affectionately
on the boy's head, and raising the hair from
his forehead, which was of noble expanse.
Carl glanced up peevishly; "I see no likeness
at all, unless it be to you—it is to you,"
he replied, and turned his head.

"Uncle Carl, were there any savage beasts
in the island you have come from?"
demanded Frank, going up to his chair.

"Savage beasts in plenty—there are nothing
else, in fact, where I live."

"And were you alone, uncle?"

"No."

This monosyllable was ejaculated in so
fierce a tone that the lad was glad to draw
back to his mother, and contemplate his
eccentric relative at a distance. After a
pause of several minutes Robin asked his
brother from what place he had travelled
last. "From Rome," was the reply; "it is a
fine city, but dead—dead and dug up again."

The way in which Carl Brauston
enunciated his words was of the strangest. If you
could imagine a mechanical imitation of the
human voice you would have it; each
sentence came out sharply, distinctly, but
disconnectedly, as if the speaker were groping
in the dark for ideas or memories which he
could not seize, or which, having seized, he
could not fit with words enough. Robin's
nature was not to remember wrongs, or he
might have taken a cold satisfaction in the
view of his brother's misery; instead he
regarded him with deepest commiseration, and
Alice, who had never loved him, could
scarcely refrain from tears. Carl said,
"Your heart was always soft, Alice; but
do not waste any sympathy on me. You
only see a man who has not slept in a bed for
a week. Give me some tea, and I'll go back
to my inn."

"Certainly, Carl, you will not leave us to-
night, and Christmas time, too?" cried
Robin; "think you have come home—you
are welcome, heartily welcome—and it is not
fit you should stir from the fire-side again.
Alice has a room for you."

"Well, so be it," replied Carl; " I will be
your guest for to-night, and to-morrow you
must be mine."

Frank had gradually crept back to a position
in front of his uncle, and stood gazing
steadfastly into his countenance with a solemn
earnestness and childish curiosity. "Uncle
Carl," he began deliberately, "you have lived
on a desert-island;—have you seen ghosts
also?"

Alice laughed, and drew him away, calling
him foolish boy, and bidding him not to tease
his uncle, who was tired.

"Seen ghosts! what does the lad mean?
—ghosts, what are ghosts?" said Carl,
passionately, and with lividly blanched lips.
"Ghosts! who says anything about ghosts?
I know nothing. Why should I see ghosts?
Go away, go away!"

Frank hid himself behind his mother,
but it was not him that Carl's clenched fist
menaced; it was some shadow-form in the
air at which he glared, and which he bade
begone. This fit of agitation lasted two or
three minutes, and then he sank collapsed
and groaning in his chair, with his face
buried in his breast. Alice hurried the
children out of the room and sent them to
their beds. When she returned, Carl was
telling his brother how ill he had been in
Rome, and that he had not recovered his tone
yet. "You see, Robin, I have led a hard
life; O, my God, what a miserable life!"

"Our father's death, occurring so suddenly,
was a dreadful shock to you, Carl!" said
Alice, gently. There was no answer. Carl
sat staring into the fire for several minutes;
at last he said, very suddenly:

"Go you away, Alice; I have something to
tell Robin—go away." As the door closed
after her, Carl leaned forward towards his
brother, and said in a hoarse whisper, "Robin,
I murdered my father!—and—and Margery
Pilkington!" Robin started back and stared
at him; their eyes met.

"Yes I poisoned them both, and they
—died—died—died, and I am—— How wild
you look, brother! what ails you?"

"Have done with these foolish tales, will
you!" cried Robin fiercely;" you have
command enough to keep in lies, have you
not?"

"I put three times the quantity in the
glass, and he took it out of my hand;—if I
had waited three hours I should have saved
my soul—the doctor said he could not have
lived longer, but the devil was there tempting
me—Margery Pilkington found my secret out
the first evening she lived with me, and the
persecution I underwent from that woman
was awful—and one night she threatened
me, and she died. Well, what of that? They
said she had disease of the heart——"

"Carl, are these fables conjured out of a
sick brain?—they are, surely?" said Robin
in an awful tone.

"Devil's truth, every one of them!"
returned Carl, with an insane glee; "devil's
truth, I tell you. If you don't believe me, ask
Margery Pilkington—there she sits in your
wife's place. You won't tell Alice—swear!"
he sprang up and laid his hand on his
brother's shoulder. Robin thrust him back
into his chair, and held him with a grasp of
iron.