wish to ask me? now is the time." "Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you." "Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?" "No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don't be angry; I should like to know something about Big Ben." "You are a strange lad," said my father; "and, though of late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations? You wish to know something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such vanities--something about him. I will tell you--his--skin when he flung off his clothes--and he had a particular knack in doing so--his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat; and when he fought, he stood so--if I remember right--his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was here." CHAPTER XXVIII. At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the door. "You have been long absent!" said I. "Yes," said he, "perhaps too long; but how is my father?" "Very poorly," said I, "he has had a fresh attack; but where have you been of late?" "Far and wide," said my brother; "but I can't tell you anything now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his illness." "Stay a moment," said I. "Is the world such a fine place as you supposed it to be before you went away?" "Not quite," said my brother, "not quite; indeed I wish--but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father." There was another question on my tongue, but I forebore; for the eyes of the young man were full of tears. I pointed with my finger, and the young man hastened past me to the arms of his father. I forebore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome. What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview, no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my brother's arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised his spirits. He was composed enough, however. "I ought to be grateful," said he; "I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?" My father's end was evidently at hand. And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will be as well to observe, that it is possible to feel deeply and yet make no outward sign. And now for the closing scene.