“Then you're heartily welcome, Sir, whoever you are. Pray, walk in. Here, Jem, take the gentleman's horse to the stable--see him dressed and fed directly. Now, Sir, will you please to follow me?” Mr. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,--as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,--but that was the only drawback to her beauty. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers. Her figure was perfect,--tall, graceful, rounded,--and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. “My wife and daughter, Sir,” said the carpenter, introducing them to his guest. Mrs. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. Winifred's reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation. “This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear,” said the carpenter. “Ay, indeed! And who may that be?” inquired his wife. “One whom you may perhaps have forgotten,” replied the stranger, “but who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at those of your excellent husband.” At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. “I have a token to deliver to you,” continued the stranger, addressing her. “To me?” gasped Winifred. “This locket,” he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,--“do you remember it?” “I do--I do!” cried Winifred. “What's all this?” exclaimed Wood in amazement. “Do you not know me, father?” said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand. “Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?” “God bless me!” ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, “can--can it be?” “Surely,” screamed Mrs. Wood, joining the group, “it isn't Thames Darrell come to life again?” “It is--it is!” cried Winifred, rushing towards him, and flinging her arms round his neck,--“it is my dear--dear brother!”