g for my bread. But
although my dear father at his death left me a small fortune, which
yields me three hundred a year, I do not feel entitled to lead the life
of an idler in this busy world, where so many are obliged to toil night
and day for the bare necessaries of life. I have therefore taken to my
favourite studies as a sort of business, and flatter myself that I have
made one or two not unimportant discoveries, and added a few mites to
the sum of human knowledge. A good deal of my time is spent in
scientific roving expeditions throughout the country, and in
contributing papers to several magazines."

While I was thus speaking I observed that Peterkin's face was undergoing
the most remarkable series of changes of expression, which, as I
concluded, merged into a smile of beaming delight, as he said,--"Ralph,
you're a trump!"

"Possibly," said I, "you are right; but, setting that question aside for
the present, let me remind you that you have not yet told me where you
mean to go to."

"I mean," said Peterkin slowly, placing both hands on his knees and
looking me steadily in the face--"I mean to go a-hunting in--but I
forgot. You don't know that I'm a hunter, a somewhat famous hunter?"

"Of course I don't. You are so full of your plans and proposals that
you have not yet told me where you have been or what doing these six
years. And you ye never written to me once all that time, shabby
fellow. I thought you were dead."

"Did you go into mourning for me, Ralph?"

"No, of course not."

"A pretty fellow you are to find fault. You thought that I, your oldest
and best friend, was dead, and you did not go into mourning. How could
I write to you when you parted from me without giving me your address?
It was a mere chance my finding you out even now. I was taking a quiet
cup of coffee in the commercial room of a hotel not far distant, when I
overheard a stranger speaking of his friend `Ralph Rover, the
philosopher,' so I plunged at him promiscuously, and made him give me
your address. But I've corresponded with Jack ever since we parted on
the pier at Dover."

"What! Jack--Jack Martin?" I exclaimed, as a warm gush of feeling
filled my heart at the sound of his well-remembered name. "Is Jack
alive?"

"Alive! I should think so. If possible, he's more alive than ever; for
I should suppose he must be full-grown now, which he was not when we
last met. He and I have corresponded regularly. He lives in t