|A sailor-man with a thick black beard, and all his belongings apparently on his back,--for the dunnage-bag he carried was so poorly stuffed it could have held little more than a pair of sea-boots,--went into Erchie’s close one afternoon, and slowly climbed the stair. He put the bag at his feet when he came to Erchie’s door with “MacPherson” on the name-plate, scratched his head, hitched his waist-belt once or twice, and seemed in a mood to turn and flee rather than to ring or knock. At last he faintly tugged the bell-pull, and leaned against the door-post with the air of one who expected he might have some parley before getting admittance. There was a step in the lobby, and Erchie himself in his shirt-sleeves came to the door. “We’re no’ for onything the day,” said he. “We have a sewin’-machine already, and we’re a’ in the Prudential Insurance, and the staircase windows were cleaned on Setturday, and----” “Faither,” said the sailor-man, “do ye no’ ken me?” Erchie came closer and looked at the bearded face, and put his hand tremblingly upon the young man’s shoulder. “Willie!” said he. “Willie!” he repeated. “Man, ye’re sair needin’ shavin’.” He shook his son, and “O, Willie,” said he, “whit’ll yer mither say? I suppose if I was the rale thing mysel’, I should kill the fatted calf or start the greetin’; but as shair’s death we havena kept a calf in this hoose since ye left it yoursel’, and I was never yin o’ the greetin’ kind. My goodness! Willie!” He was so bewildered he forgot his visitor stood on the door-mat, until Willie lifted his dunnage-bag, and then he urged him into the kitchen. “Where’s--where’s mother?” said the sailor. “She micht be deid and in her grave for you,” said his father; “but she’s no’. She’s doon at Lindsay the grocer’s for a loaf. Oh ye rogue! ye rogue! Whit’ll she say to ye? Seeven years, come the fifth o’ June! Oh ye’re awfu’ needin’ shavin’. I hope--I hope the health’s fine?” “Fine,” said Willie, and sat in a chair uneasily, like a stranger. “And whaur in a’ the warld did ye come frae?” said his father, putting the kettle on the fire. They had not even shaken hands. “China and roond aboot there,” said the son. “China!” said his father. “And hoo did ye leave them a’ in China? They’re throng at the war there the noo, I see. I hope ye werena hurted.” “No, nor hurted,” said Willie. “I hope ye’re fine yersel’--and mother?” “Me!” said Erchie. “Jist a fair gladiator! Divna ken my ain strength, and can eat ony-thing, jist like a connoshoor. As for yer mother, she’s wonderfu’; a wee frail, but aye able to dae her turns. She’ll be the gled wumman this---- Whit I mean to say is, ye should get a reg’lar leatherin’ for your cairry-on. If I hadna my rheumatism in my shoother gey bad, I wad tak a stick to ye. I’m pretty wild at ye, mind I’m tellin’ ye. Whit dae ye think o’ yersel’, to gang awa’ and no’ write us for seeven years?” “No’ an awfu’ lot,” said the son.