As the soldiers walked off, gesticulating as if at any moment they would throw their caps down and fight it out, in came my father, took up the letter, pulled out his glasses, and having read a little, called out-- “Charlie, here’s news for you.” “GROVE END, UPDOWN, “May --, 18--. “MY DEAR BROTHER, “I was very glad to get your letter, for, guessing roughly, I should say it is not a day less than four years since I last heard from you. You hate the sea; yet you managed to cross the Channel once; can’t you cross it again and spend a few weeks with us?” (My father shook his head.) “I can give you some capital Burgundy, my cook knows her work, and though society here is rather drab-coloured, I can pick you out enough people to keep you well stocked with rubbers.” (“He would have to entertain a corpse,” said my father. “The crossing would kill me--especially if it were calm--for then _all_ the filth of the engine-room is tasted.”) “And now to business,” continued the letter. “You want to place your son. Would he like to be a banker’s clerk?” (“No,” said I; but my father took no notice.) “One of my clerks is leaving me. His salary is £100. I will make it £150 for your son, if he will come. He can either live in lodgings or with us. He may prefer the former; but I think he will find our house more comfortable than any apartments he can get at Updown. The place will be vacant next week, and he can join when he likes. “Richard was with me last month.” (“Poor Dick!” said my father; “we haven’t met for twenty years!”) “Do you know that he has changed his quarters, and purchased an estate at Shandon?” (“Tom told me that Dick had retired on £40,000,” said my father, looking at me over his glasses.) “He has grown very corpulent, and hankers after his old trade. A gain of £10 makes him giddy with joy; and he will forget, amid his transports, that he lost a hundred or more last account. His daughter Theresa has grown a fine woman. I shall be curious to see your son, who scarcely reached to my knee when I last saw him. “My wife and Constance send all manner of kind messages. “Believe me, dear Charles, “Your affectionate brother, “THOMAS HARGRAVE.” “What is all this about?” said I. “About?” cried my father: “why, about you.” “What made you write? You didn’t tell me you had done so.” “Because I wasn’t sure that anything would come of it. Why, this is from your uncle Tom. Didn’t you know you had such an uncle?” “Of course I knew--but what made you write?”