“Well, but, the place,—how does the old house look?” persisted Mr. Farrer. “You used to be fond of prying through that green curtain to see the folks go in and out of the shop; and then you raised mustard and cress at the back window; and you used to whistle up and down stairs to your attic till your poor mother could bear it no longer. The old place looks just as it did to you, I dare say?” Henry could say no more than that he remembered all these things. By recalling many others, he hoped to divert the course of investigation; but his father insisted on his saying that the dingy, confined, shabby rooms looked to the grown wise man the very same as to the thoughtless child who had seen no other house. It was as impossible for Henry to say this as to believe still, as he once did, that his father was the wisest man in the world; and Mr. Farrer was disconcerted accordingly. He thought within himself that this was a poor reward for all that he had spent on his son Harry, and pushed away his cup with the spoon in it when it had been filled only four times. “Are you tired, Jane?” asked Henry, setting down his tin candlestick with its tall thin candle, when his father had done bidding him be careful not to set the house on fire, and Michael was gone to see that all was safe in the shop. Jane was quite disposed for more conversation; and would indeed have been darning stockings for at least another hour if Henry had gone to sleep at ten, like his brother. She brought out her knitting, carefully piled the embers, extinguished one candle, and was ready to hear Henry’s questions and remarks, and to offer some of her own. She could not return the compliment she had received as to her looks. She thought Harry was thin, and nearly as pale as in the old days when his nankeen frock and drab beaver matched his complexion. Henry had been studying hard; and he acknowledged that his mind had been anxious of late. It was so strange that nothing had been said to him respecting his destination in life, that he could not help speculating on the future more than was quite good for health and spirits. Could Jane give him any idea what his father’s intentions were? Henry now looked so boyish, with feet on fender, and fingers busy with an unemployed knitting-needle, that Jane’s ancient familiarity began to return. She hoped there were no matrimonial thoughts at the bottom of Henry’s anxiety about the future. “Must no man be anxious about his duties and his prospects till he thinks of marrying, Jane? But why have you hopes and fears about it?” “Because I am sure my father will not hear of such a thing as your marrying. You know how steady he is when he once makes up his mind.” Henry glanced up in his sister’s face, and away again when he saw that she met his eye. She continued,