"I'm sure he don't. What have you got to sell?" "Skins, sir, skins, principally sheep," said the tanner, respectfully. "Well, look here: just you be off. The governor buys all his skins when he wants 'em at the law stationers, but he hardly ever uses one. It's the solicitors who do that. Now then, off you go." Just then the door opened, and a well-known voice called "Dick" loudly, the speaker coming out on to the stone landing, and then starting with surprise. "Why, father!" he exclaimed. "You here? I am glad to see you. Really, I _am_ glad to _see_ you." The grave, stern way of speaking was gone, and it was Luke Ross of a dozen years before who was shaking the old man by the hands, and then patting him affectionately on the shoulders, the old man dropping umbrella and bag, and the tears starting to his weak old eyes, as he saw his son's genuine pleasure at the encounter. "Come along in, father," continued Luke. "Here, Dick, pick up those things and bring them in." Dick screwed up his face and stared. "I--I'll pick them up, Luke, my boy," quavered the old man, glancing at the young clerk. "No, no; he'll bring them in, father," said Luke, drawing the old man into the office and into his private room, where he thrust him into the most comfortable chair, and then stood over him smiling with pleasure, seeming as if he could hardly make enough of the little, shrunken old man. "Just come up, I suppose?" cried Luke. "Yes, my boy, yes," said old Michael, wiping his eyes; "but I've been sitting out there on the stairs these two hours." "Sitting out there! Why didn't you ring?" "I did knock, my boy, and that lad of yours said you were out, and told me to go away; and if I had known you were in all the time, my boy, I should have gone away thinking you didn't want to see your old father. Did you tell him to say you were out, Luke?" "The young scoundrel! no," cried Luke. "I'm afraid he's a very wicked boy, then," piped the old man, "a very wicked boy. But are you glad to see me again, Luke?" "Glad to see you, my dear old father? Why, yes, yes, you know I am. Come, come, come, or you'll make me weak too." "Ye-ye--yes, my boy, it is weak," quavered the old fellow, wiping his eyes hastily; "but I'm getting very old now, Luke. I was a middle-aged man when I married your dear mother, and I'm seventy-nine now, and not so strong as I was, and--and I got fancying as I came up that now you had grown to be such a great man you wouldn't want to see such a shabby old fellow as I am at your chambers." "For shame, father!" cried Luke, reproachfully. "What cause have I ever given you for thinking that?"