un down to Brixley, and look at the farm."

"But are you really in earnest!" asked Ned, in some surprise.

"Never more so in my life," replied the old gentleman, mildly. "Now be
off; I want to read the paper."

Ned rose and left the room, scarcely believing that his uncle did not
jest. As he shut the door, old Mr Shirley took up the paper, pulled
down the upper pair of spectacles--an act which knocked the lower pair
off his nose, whereat he smiled more blandly than ever--and began to
read.

Meanwhile, Edward Sinton put on his great-coat--the identical one he
used to wear before he went away--and his hat and his gloves, and walked
out into the crowded streets of London, with feelings somewhat akin,
probably, to those of a somnambulist. Having been so long accustomed to
the free-and-easy costume of the mines, Ned felt about as uncomfortable
and stiff as a warrior of old must have felt when armed _cap-a-pie_.
His stalwart frame was some what thinner and harder than when he last
took the same walk; his fair moustache and whiskers were somewhat more
decided, and less like wreaths of smoke, and his countenance was of a
deep-brown colour; but in other respects Ned was the same dashing fellow
that he used to be--dashing by _nature_, we may remark, not by
_affectation_.

In half-an-hour he stood before Moxton's door. There it was, as large
as life, and as green as ever. Ned really found it impossible to
believe that it was so long since he last saw it. He felt as if it had
been yesterday. The brass knocker and the brass plate were there too,
as dirty as ever--perhaps a thought dirtier--and the dirty house still
retreated a little behind its fellows, and was still as much ashamed of
itself--seemingly--as ever.

Ned raised the knocker, and smote the brass knob. The result was, as
formerly, a disagreeable-looking old woman, who replied to the question,
"Is Mr Moxton in?" with a sharp, short, "Yes." The dingy little
office, with its insufficient allowance of daylight, and its
compensating mixture of yellow gas, was inhabited by the same identical
small dishevelled clerk who, nearly two years before, was busily
employed in writing his name interminably on scraps of paper, and who
now, as then, answered to the question, "Can I see Mr Moxton?" by
pointing to the door which opened into the inner apartment, and resuming
his occupation--the same occupation--writing his name on scraps of
paper.

Ned tapped--as of yore.