"That's all right, my boy," replied the captain. "Only you know my prejudice against your cousin, and I'm not particularly glad to find that he's down here." Comethup deemed it wiser to make no answer; he put on his hat and went off to the inn to find Brian. The little old-fashioned bar of the place seemed unusually full that night, and much animated talk was going on. As Comethup inquired for his cousin, a hush fell upon those in the place, and curious looks were directed toward him. It was evident that Brian's appearance had created something of the stir he had suggested. Brian was in the most jovial humour, and came forward to greet him with a cry of delight. There stepped forward another figure also--Mr. Robert Carlaw--who grasped his hand warmly, and allowed a smile of relief to break over features which had before worn a look of anxiety. Comethup concluded that this must be the Burden referred to in the letter. "My dear chap," began Brian boisterously, "I know you'll laugh when you hear everything; you'll split yourself with laughter at our expense. You know, another man in my position would see the grim side of it, the sordid side; I only see the humorous one. Look at my respected dad; saw you ever such a figure of melancholy? You must know that I made up my mind to come down to my native place--I think I hinted something of the sort when I saw you in London. I pined for old sights, and old sounds, and familiar faces; I heard again the babble of the brooks of my youth, the songs of the birds whose nests I robbed in boyhood's hour. Well, I was just preparing to start when my wonderful parent put in an appearance; we hadn't seen each other for a considerable period. 'Where are you going?' says he. 'To the home of my birth,' says I. Then, like the historic milkmaid, 'I'll go with you,' says he. And here we are." "But, my son," interrupted Mr. Robert Carlaw gravely, "the worst has yet to be told." "The worst? The best, you mean; quite the best.--You know, my dear Comethup, our preposterous fashion of taking life--a sort of childlike belief that the ravens, or some other well-disposed persons, will feed us. Well, you don't need to be told that my disgraceful parent and myself discovered, when we arrived here, that we hadn't a sovereign between us; and this, too, after we had, in the lightness of our hearts, secured the best rooms that the place could afford." "You forget, my dear Brian," interrupted his father, "that that was _my_ suggestion. I considered it necessary, for the sake of your reputation here."