That same evening, while Alwyn Cunningham at his hotel in London was writing the story of his life to his brother, hardly able to fix his thoughts on anything but the interview of the afternoon, Harry Whittaker was walking through the streets of Rapley. Nobody noticed him there, or wondered to see a stout, good-looking man, with a long beard, and rather a rough coat, among the passers-by. Certainly no one identified him with the saucy errand-boy who had idled at street corners and engaged in a free fight, with parcels and bandboxes for missiles and weapons, eight years or so before. He walked on till he came to the small but respectable-looking ironmonger's shop, over the door of which was painted the name of Stroud. He walked in, glanced round, and a well-dressed woman came forward. "What can I show you, sir?" Harry asked for a clasp knife, looked at her keenly for a moment, then said: "That's an American mowing machine, I think, ma'am?" "Yes, sir, the newest patent, very light and handy. Anything in the way of garden tools, sir?" Harry Whittaker was Harry Whittaker still; he appreciated the exquisite joke of being ceremoniously treated by his Aunt Stroud. But he could not afford to indulge it. He looked at her, smiled a little, and said: "No, thank you, my farm's across the water in State. It'd hardly pay to take over machinery from the old country." Mrs Stroud gave a start, and, as she afterwards expressed it, "nearly sunk down upon the rakes." "Could I have a word in private?" said Harry. "Step this way--sir," she said, still in a state of doubt, and leading him into the comfortable parlour behind the shop. "Aunt Eliza," said Harry, as the door closed behind them, "I felt sure that _you_ would know me at once." Mrs Stroud did sink down into an arm-chair exclaiming: "Bless us and save us, it's Harry!" "Yes, aunt," said Harry, "it is; and I've come first to you, knowing your influence with father, and that you could be trusted with an important secret; to ask you to give me a welcome, and to overlook my past undutiful behaviour." "Oh, my! And I'd imagined you a convict, or drowned dead!" "Not at all," said Harry, "I never was drowned, and I haven't yet been hanged. On the contrary, finding myself well-to-do in the world, and happily settled in life, I felt that it was time to endeavour to undo the past." Harry spoke quite earnestly, but with a boldness of manner, and confidence of look, that established his identity at once. He put out his hand; but Mrs Stroud, bursting into tears, launched herself on his neck. "You were always my favourite, Harry, and if you've done well for yourself I'm most glad to see you." "Thank you, Aunt Eliza, you're very good, I'm sure; it's more than I deserve. My father, my sisters and brothers?"