“How are you, Paul?” said my aunt, offering her hand. “You seem wet through. Won't you dry your coat?” “Oh, it's no matter,” said I. “I never mind wet.” “Of course he does n't,” said my uncle. “What would he do if he was up at the 'diggins'? What would he do if he had to pick rags as I have, ten, twelve hours at a stretch, under heavier rain than this?” “Just so, sir,” said I, concurring with all he said. “And what brought you down, lad?” asked he. “I think, sir, it was to see you and my aunt. I haven't been very well of late, and I fancied a day in the country might rally me.” “Stealing a holiday,--the old story,” muttered he. “Are you doing anything now?” “No, sir. I have unfortunately nothing to do.” “Why not go on the quay then, and turn coal-heaver? I 'd not eat bread of another man's earning when I could carry a sack of coals. Do you understand that?” “Perhaps I do, sir; but I'm scarcely strong enough to be a coal-porter.” “Sell matches, then,--lucifer matches!” cried he, with a bang of his hand on the table, “or be a poster.” “Oh, Tom!” cried my aunt, who saw that I had grown first red, and then sickly pale all over. “As good men as he have done both. But here's the dinner, and I suppose you must have your share of it.” I was in no mood to resent this invitation, discourteous as it was, for I was in no mood to resent anything. I was crushed and humbled to a degree that I began to regard my abject condition as a martyr might his martyrdom. The meal went over somewhat silently; little was spoken on any side. A half-jocular remark on the goodness of my appetite was the only approach to a pleasantry. My uncle drank something which by the color I judged to be port, but he neither offered it to my aunt nor myself. She took water, and I drank largely of beer, which once more elicited a compliment to me on my powers of suction. “Better have you for a week than a fortnight, lad,” said my uncle, as we drew round the fire after dinner.