John Linden looked from one to the other. "Yes," he said, "I must not forget that I have a nephew and a niece. You are both dear to me, but no one can take the place of the boy I have lost." "But it is so long ago, uncle," said Curtis. "It must be fourteen years." "It is fourteen years." "And the boy is long since dead!" "No, no!" said John Linden, vehemently. "I do not, I will not, believe it. He still lives, and I live only in the hope of one day clasping him in my arms." "That is very improbable, uncle," said Curtis, in a tone of annoyance. "There isn't one chance in a hundred that my cousin still lives. The grave has closed over him long since. The sooner you make up your mind to accept the inevitable the better." The drawn features of the old man showed that the words had a depressing effect upon his mind, but Florence interrupted her cousin with an indignant protest. "How can you speak so, Curtis?" she exclaimed. "Leave Uncle John the hope that he has so long cherished. I have a presentiment that Harvey still lives." John Linden's face brightened up "You, too, believe it possible, Florence?" he said, eagerly. "Yes, uncle. I not only believe it possible, but probable. How old would Harvey be if he still lived?" "Eighteen--nearly a year older than yourself." "How strange! I always think of him as a little boy." "And I, too, Florence. He rises before me in his little velvet suit, as he was when I last saw him, with his sweet, boyish face, in which his mother's looks were reflected." "Yet, if still living," interrupted Curtis, harshly, "he is a rough street boy, perchance serving his time at Blackwell's Island, and, a hardened young ruffian, whom it would be bitter mortification to recognize as your son." "That's the sorrowful part of it," said his uncle, in a voice of anguish. "That is what I most dread."