me him!

"So this," he stammered out--"is what you have kept me up at Moorlands
for, is it? You never say a word to me--and--Oh, you children!--you
children! Todd, did you ever see anything like it?--my guns--and the
loving cup--and the clock, and--Come here you two blessed things and
let me get my arms around you! Kiss me, Kate--and Harry, my son--give
me your hand. No, don't say a word--don't mind me--I'm all knocked out
and--"

Down went his face in his hands and he in a heap in the chair; then he
stiffened and gave a little shiver to his elbows in the effort to keep
himself from going completely to pieces, and scrambled to his feet
again, one arm around Kate's neck, his free hand in Harry's.

"Take me everywhere and show me everything. Todd, go and find Mr. Pawson
and see if Mr. Gadgem is anywhere around; they've had something to do
with this"--here his eyes took in Todd--"You damned scoundrel, who the
devil rigged you out in that new suit?"

"Marse Harry done sont me to de tailor. See dem buttons?--but dey
ain't nuthin' to what's on the top shelf--you'll bust yo'self wide open
a-laughin', Marse George, when ye sees what's in dar--you gotter come
wid me--please Mistis an' Marse Harry, you come too. Dis way--"

Todd was full to bursting. Had his grin been half an inch wider his ears
would have dropped off.

"An' fore ye look at dem shelves der's annuder thing I gotter tell
ye;--an' dat is dat the dogs--all fo' oh em is comin' in the mawnin'.
Mister Floyd's coach-man done tole me so," and with a jerk and a whoop,
completely ignoring his master's exclamation of joy over the return
of his beloved setters, the darky threw back the door of the little
cubby-hole of a room where the Black Warrior and his brethren had once
rested in peace, and pointed to a row of erect black bottles backed by
another of recumbent ones.

"Look at dat wine, will ye, Marse George," he shouted, "all racked up on
dern shelves? Dat come f'om Mister Talbot Rutter wid dis yere cyard--"
and he handed it out.

St. George reached over, took it from his hand, and read it aloud:

"With the compliments of an old friend, who sends you herewith a few
bottles of the Jefferson and some Sercial and old Port--and a basket or
two of Royal Brown Sherry--nothing like your own, but the best he could
scare up."

Soon the newly polished and replated knocker began to get in its
liveliest work: "Mrs. Richard Horn's compliments, and would St. George
be plea