ting mood to-day. Come over and torment Giles."

"There 's nothing I like better," said she. "Let me go for my hat and a
shawl."

"And I'm off to my letter-writing," said Maitland.

CHAPTER XVII. AT THE COTTAGE

What a calm, still, mellow evening it was, as Tony sat with his mother
in the doorway of the cottage, their hands clasped, and in silence, each
very full of thought, indeed, but still fuller of that sweet luxury,
the sense of being together after an absence,--the feeling that home was
once more home, in all that can make it a centre of love and affection.

"I began to think you were n't coming back at all, Tony," said she,
"when first you said Tuesday, and then it was Friday, and then it came
to be the middle of another week. 'Ah me!' said I to the doctor, 'he 'll
not like the little cottage down amongst the tall ferns and the heather,
after all that grand town and its fine people.'"

"If you knew how glad I am to be back here," said he, with a something
like choking about the throat; "if you knew what a different happiness I
feel under this old porch, and with you beside me!"

"My dear, dear Tony, let us hope we are to have many such evenings as
this together. Let me now hear all about your journey; for, as yet, you
have only told me about that good-hearted country fellow whose bundle
has been lost Begin at the beginning, and try and remember everything."

"Here goes, then, for a regular report. See, mother, you 'd not believe
it of me, but I jotted all down in a memorandum-book, so that there's no
trusting to bad memory; all's in black and white."

"That was prudent, Tony. I 'm really glad that you have such
forethought. Let me see it."

"No, no. It's clean and clear beyond your reading. I shall be lucky
enough if I can decipher it myself. Here we begin: 'Albion, Liverpool.
Capital breakfast, but dear. Wanted change for my crown-piece, but
chaffed out of it by pretty barmaid, who said--' Oh, that's all stuff
and nonsense," said he, reddening. "'Mail-train to London; not allowed
to smoke first-class; travelled third, and had my 'baccy.' I need n't
read all this balderdash, mother; I 'll go on to business matters.
'Skeffy, a trump, told me where he buys "birdseye" for one and nine the
pound; and, mixed with cavendish, it makes grand smoking. Skeffy says he
'll get me the first thing vacant'"

"Who is Skeffy? I never heard of him before."

"Of course you 've heard. He's private secretary to Sir H