riend, just come from America."

Luke Tulliver went into the parlour behind the half-glass door, Norton
Percival following upon him closely. He heard the old man's voice saying,

"I have no friend in America; but you may tell the person to come in; I
will see him."

The voice trembled a little; and the silversmith had raised himself from
his chair, and was looking eagerly towards the door as Norton Percival
entered, not caring to wait for any more formal invitation. The two men
faced each other silently in the dim light from one candle on the
mantelpiece, Jacob Nowell looking intently at the bearded face of his
visitor.

"You can go, Tulliver," he said sharply to the shopman. "I wish to be
alone with this gentleman."

Luke Tulliver departed with his usual reluctant air, closing the door as
slowly as it was possible for him to close it, and staring at the
stranger till the last moment that it was possible for him to stare.

When he was gone the old man took the candle from the mantelpiece, and
held it up before the bearded face of the traveller.

"Yes, yes, yes," he said slowly; "at last! It is you, Percival, my only
son. I thought you were dead long ago. I had a right to consider you
dead."

"If I had thought my existence could be a matter of interest to you, I
should hardly have so long refrained from all communication with you. But
your letters led me to suppose you utterly indifferent to my fate."

"I offered you and your wife a home."

"Yes, but on conditions that were impossible to me. I had some pride in
those days. My education had not fitted me to stand behind a counter and
drive hard bargains with dealers of doubtful honesty. Nor could I bring
my wife to such a home as this."

"The time came when you left that poor creature without any home," said
the old man sternly.

"Necessity has no law, my dear father. You may imagine that my life,
without a profession and without any reliable resources, has been rather
precarious. When I seemed to have acted worst, I have been only the slave
of circumstances."

"Indeed! and have you no pity for the fate of your wife, no interest in
the life of your only child?"

"My wife was a poor helpless creature, who contrived to make my life
wretched," Mr. Nowell, alias Percival, answered coolly. "I gave her every
sixpence I possessed when I sent her home to England; but luck went dead
against me for a long time after that, and I could neither send her money
nor go