“Ah, Pawson--glad to see you!” the invalid called gaily extending his hand as soon as he stood erect on the sidewalk. “Back again, you see--these old derelicts bob up once in a while when you least expect them.” And he wrung his hand heartily. “So the vultures, it seems, have not turned up yet and made their roost in my nest. Most kind of you to stay home and give up your business to meet me! You know Colonel Talbot Rutter, of Moorlands, I presume, and Mr. Harry Rutter--Of course you do! Harry has told me all about your midnight meeting when you took him for a constable, and he took you for a thief. No--please don't laugh, Pawson--Mr. Rutter is the worst kind of a thief. Not only has he stolen my heart because of his goodness to me, but he threatens to make off with my body. Give me your hand, Todd. Now a little lift on that rickety elbow and I reckon we can make that flight of steps. I have come down them so many times of late with no expectation of ever mounting them again that it will be a novelty to be sure of staying over night. Come in, Talbot, and see the home of my ancestors. I am sorry the Black Warrior is all gone--I sent Kennedy the last bottle some time ago--pity that vintage didn't last forever. Do you know, Talbot, if I had my way, I'd have a special spigot put in the City Spring labelled 'Gift of a once prominent citizen,' and supply the inhabitants with 1810--something fit for a gentleman to drink.” They were all laughing now; the colonel carrying the pillows Todd had tucked behind the invalid's back, Harry a few toilet articles wrapped in paper, and Matthew his cane--and so the cortege crawled up the steps, crossed the dismantled dining-room--the colonel aghast at the change made in its interior since last he saw it--and so on to St. George's room where Todd and Jemima put him to bed. His uncle taken care of--(his father had kept on to Moorlands to tell his mother the good news)--Harry mounted the stairs to his old room, which Pawson had generously vacated. The appointments were about the same as when he left; time and poverty had wrought but few changes. Pawson, had moved in a few books and there was a night table beside the small bed with a lamp on it, showing that he read late; but the bureau and shabby arm-chair, and the closet, stripped now of the young attorney's clothes to make room for the wanderer's--(a scant, sorry lot)--were pretty much the same as Harry had found on that eventful night when he had driven in through the rain and storm beside his Uncle George, his father's anathemas ringing in his ears.