thank God Almighty for restoring him to me."

Binnie did not laugh any more. "By George! Tom Newcome," said he, "you're
just one of the saints of the earth. If all men were like you there'd be
an end of both our trades; and there would be no fighting and no
soldiering, no rogues, and no magistrates to catch them." The Colonel
wondered at his friend's enthusiasm, who was not used to be
complimentary; indeed what so usual with him as that simple act of
gratitude and devotion about which his comrade spoke to him? To ask a
blessing for his boy was as natural to him as to wake with the sunrise,
or to go to rest when the day was over. His first and his last thought
was always the child.

The two gentlemen were home in time enough to find Clive dressed, and his
uncle arrived for breakfast. The Colonel said a grace over that meal; the
life was begun which he had longed and prayed for, and the son smiling
before his eyes who had been in his thoughts for so many fond years.

If my memory serves me right it was at about this time that I, the humble
biographer of Mr. Clive Newcome's life, met him again for the first time
since my school days at Grey Friars.

Going to the play one night with some fellows of my own age, and laughing
enthusiastically at the farce, we became naturally hungry at midnight,
and a desire for Welch Rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the
"Cave of Harmony," then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, with whom we
enjoyed such intimacy that he never failed to greet us with a kind nod.
We also knew the three admirable glee-singers. It happened that there was
a very small attendance at the "Cave" that night, and we were all more
sociable and friendly because the company was select. The songs were
chiefly of the sentimental class; such ditties were much in vogue at the
time of which I speak.

There came into the "Cave" a gentleman with a lean brown face and long
black moustaches, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a stranger
to the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. He was
pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling for
sherry and water, he listened to the music, and twirled his moustaches
with great enthusiasm.

At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, bounded
across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and, blushing, said,
"Don't you know me?"

It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had not seen for six
years, g