“And when are you going back to business, Harry? I hope, now that you are here, that you will stay a day or two and renew your acquaintance with your old friends. Mrs. Eadie will make you very comfortable. I am sorry to say I am dining out both to-day and to-morrow, but if you like to have young Pilgrim, or Gus Grey, or any of your former acquaintances, my housekeeper is really equal to a very nice little dinner, as you know. I think I heard there was a dance getting up somewhere. Stay till the end of the week, if your leave lasts so long.” “Uncle Henry,” said Harry, with an air of tragedy, which he was quite unconscious of, “you may suppose that a man who has been turned out of his father’s house, and has thrown off all connection with his native soil----” “No, no, my boy, no, no,” said Mr. Joscelyn, with a half laugh, “not so bad as that.” “I say,” continued Harry, with increasing solemnity, “who has parted from his family for ever, and cut off all connection with his native soil--you may suppose that he hasn’t much heart to pay visits or take up old acquaintances. What is there likely to be between me and Jack Pilgrim, who is stepping into his father’s business, and as settled as the Fells? or Gus Grey, who is kept up and set forward at the Bar, though he is not earning a penny, by relations that think all the world of him? what can there be in common, I should like to know, between them and me? I’m only the fifth son, as you say, to start with, therefore I’m of no consequence; and, by Jove!” cried Harry, striking the table with his clenched fist, “if ever I enter that house while Ralph Joscelyn’s the master of it--if ever I go back to knock at the door that was locked upon me, locked upon me in the middle of the night----” Uncle Henry’s brow contracted when that blow came down upon his neat writing-table; it shook the inkstand, which perhaps was overfull, and spilt a drop or two of ink, which of all things in the world was the thing which annoyed him most. He mopped it up hurriedly with his blotting-paper, but his brow became dark, and his mouth drew up at the corners in a way that meant mischief. “Pardon me,” he said, with exquisite civility, “but to spoil my table will not do your affairs any good. It is a pity that you take such a very tragical view of the matter, but in your present state of mind nothing that I could say, I fear, would be of much use. Thick! thick! I don’t think this spot is likely to come out.” “I am dreadfully sorry, uncle----” poor Harry began. “Sorrow, so far as I am aware, does not take out ink-spots,” said the old gentleman, testily; “perhaps you will do me the favour to ring for Eadie. If things are so very serious the less we say about them the better--heated discussions are never any good. I can only say that if you like to stay a day or two you are quite welcome, Harry. Mrs. Eadie, look here; the ink-bottle has been filled too full, perhaps you know something that will take it out.”