her both lived; the latter very infirm, unable to leave the
house; the former a man of seventy, twisted with rheumatism, his face
rugged as a countenance picked out by fancy on the trunk of a big old
oak, his hands scarred and deformed with labour. Their old age was
restful. The son who had made himself a 'gentleman', and who in London
sat at the tables of the high-born, the wealthy, the famous, saw to it
that they lacked no comfort.

A bright, dry morning invited the old man and the young to go forth
together. They walked from the suburb countrywards, and their
conversation was of the time when a struggle was being made to bear the
expense of those three years at Whitelaw--no bad investment, as it
proved. The father spoke with a strong Midland accent, using words of
dialect by no means disagreeable to the son's ear--for dialect is a
very different thing from the bestial jargon which on the lips of the
London vulgar passes for English. They were laughing over some half
grim reminiscence, when Earwaker became aware of two people who were
approaching along the pavement, they also in merry talk. One of them he
knew; it was Christian Moxey.

Too much interested in his companion to gaze about him, Christian came
quite near before his eyes fell on Earwaker. Then he started with a
pleasant surprise, changed instantly to something like embarrassment
when he observed the aged man. Earwaker was willing to smile and go by,
had the other consented; but a better impulse prevailed in both. They
stopped and struck hands together.

'My father,' said the man of letters, quite at his ease.

Christian was equal to the occasion; he shook hands heartily with the
battered toiler, then turned to the lady at his side.

'Janet, you guess who this is.--My cousin, Earwaker, Miss Janet Moxey.'

Doubtless Janet was aware that her praises had suffered no diminution
when sung by Christian to his friends. Her eyes just fell, but in a
moment were ready with their frank, intelligent smile. Earwaker
experienced a pang--ever so slight--suggesting a revision of his
philosophy.

They talked genially, and parted with good wishes for the New Year.

Two days later, on reaching home, Earwaker found in his letter-box a
scrap of paper on which were scribbled a few barely legible lines.
'Here I am!' he at length deciphered. 'Got into Tilbury at eleven this
morning. Where the devil are you? Write to Charing Cross Hotel.' No
signature, but none was needed.