"Your father's very hearty, and your brothers and sisters doing well, except Florrie, who gives a deal of trouble, as you did yourself. But what'll you take, Henry? Sit down and tell me where you've been living. What will you have?" "A cup of tea, aunt, if it's your tea-time; I'm a teetotaller," said Harry, unable to help a twinkle of fun at his aunt's astonished rapture at this evidence of virtue. As she got the tea he began to tell his story much as Alwyn had already related it to Edgar; but at greater length, and with many interruptions from his aunt. "Mr Alwyn," he went on, after some preliminaries about the buying of the land, and the discovery of the coal upon it, "never played the fool any more after he was on his own hands as it were. He seemed to want to justify himself, and prove those mistaken that thought we should both go to the bad. He never let on that he felt parting from home and being cut off from his expectations, nor did I. But, when there's no longer anyone to pull a young fellow up, it's one of two things: either he goes down altogether, or he has to pull up himself. And I can tell you, aunt, if all the graceless young chaps knew what a much easier sort of thing it is to get a good blowing up at the time, and the consequences saved you afterwards, than to go scot-free and find out for yourself what you've brought about, they'd not be in such a hurry to kick over the traces. But Mr Alwyn said that he'd brought suspicion and trouble on me, and he wouldn't be the ruin of me further. So we kept straight and got on, and thought a deal of ourselves for doing it." "It's what no one never expected!" ejaculated Mrs Stroud. "No," said Harry. "Well, I got married, as I'll tell more about by-and-by, and I thought I'd done with the old country altogether, and went on as comfortable as could be till my little boy came. Then, Aunt Eliza, somehow it came over me more and more what it would be to have that little chap hear that there were those over here that thought I was a thief, and have him know that I was an undutiful son that left my father in his old age. If that there baby was for eight years without so much as thinking of me, or caring what I thought of him, why, it'd go near to break my heart, and I'd sooner follow him to his grave now, and never see him again. God forgive me! I'd been a bad son, but `don't care' was a word I couldn't say before the little chap, nor have him say after me. "Well, when all this was waking in me, Mr Alwyn was away in Boston, and I'd reason to guess what kept him there, and how there was a young lady in the case. He came back sudden, and while I was thinking how to tell him what was in my mind he turned round upon me and said, says he `Harry, I'm going home to beg pardon.' "`If you do,' says I, `I'll go with you.'