“’Ere, come now,” objected the shopkeeper, shortening his arm and squinting along it. “I should have known you anywhere,” continued the other, mournfully; “and here I’ve thrown up a splendid berth and come all the way from Australia just for one glimpse of Miss Kybird, and she doesn’t know me. When I die, Kybird, you will find the word ‘Calais’ engraven upon my heart.” Mr. Kybird said, “Oh, indeed.” His daughter tossed her head and bade Mr. Nugent take his nonsense to people who might like it. “Last time I see you,” said Mr. Kybird, pursing up his lips and gazing at the counter in an effort of memory; “last time I see you was one fifth o’ November when you an’ another bright young party was going about in two suits o’ oilskins wot I’d been ’unting for ’igh and low all day long.” Jack Nugent sighed. “They were happy times, Kybird.” “Might ha’ been for you,” retorted the other, his temper rising a little at the remembrance of his wrongs. “Have you come home for good? inquired Miss Kybird, curiously. Have you seen your father? He passed here a little while ago.” “I saw him,” said Jack, with a brevity which was not lost upon the astute Mr. Kybird. “I may stay in Sunwich, and I may not—it all depends.” “You’re not going ’ome?” said Mr. Kybird. “No.” The shopkeeper stood considering. He had a small room to let at the top of his house, and he stood divided between the fear of not getting his rent and the joy to a man fond of simple pleasures, to be obtained by dunning the arrogant Captain Nugent for his son’s debts. Before he could arrive at a decision his meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a stout, sandy-haired lady from the back parlour, who, having conquered his scruples against matrimony some thirty years before, had kept a particularly wide-awake eye upon him ever since. “Your tea’s a-gettin’ cold,” she remarked, severely. Her husband received the news with calmness. He was by no means an enthusiast where that liquid was concerned, the admiration evoked by its non-inebriating qualities having been always something in the nature of a mystery to him. “I’m coming,” he retorted; “I’m just ’aving a word with Mr. Nugent ’ere.” “Well, I never did,” said the stout lady, coming farther into the shop and regarding the visitor. “I shouldn’t ’ave knowed ’im. If you’d asked me who ’e was I couldn’t ha’ told you—I shouldn’t ’ave knowed ’im from Adam.” Jack shook his head. “It’s hard to be forgotten like this,” he said, sadly. “Even Miss Kybird had forgotten me, after all that had passed between us.” “Eh?” said Mr. Kybird. “Oh, don’t take any notice of him,” said his daughter. “I’d like to see myself.” Mr. Kybird paid no heed. He was still thinking of the son of Captain Nugent being indebted to him for lodging, and the more he thought of the idea the better he liked it. “Well, now you’re ’ere,” he said, with a great assumption of cordiality, “why not come in and ’ave a cup o’ tea?”