“I live here--have lived, ever since that time, with my guardian.” He started back with a gesture of repulsion. “Not that man, that crow, that Quayle?” I laughed. He had no sense of humour. In all my knowledge of him I never knew him even to smile. “O dear no!” I said. “A very different person; my uncle, Mr. Paxton.” “He could not be too different to satisfy me as your guardian,” he responded grimly. Then his face softened, and he took my hands in his. “So long as I stay,” he said sorrowfully, “you will let me see you sometimes?” Now, at that, my heart melted to him. He was so fierce, so vicious to the rest of the world, it was a certain glory to be his chosen. “Won’t you come and see my uncle?” I said. “He is at home, not very well. He knows all about that trial, Mr. Pilbrow, and--and he loved my father dearly.” I believe there were tears sprung to his eyes. I turned away abashed. “Does he love _you_?” he asked low. “He lives for me, I think.” “Then,” he said, “we shall have that sympathy in common, and I will risk it.” All the way back I chattered to him of my life since we had last met. He had been so associated with my father’s end, I could not shake off the impression that we were old friends. He listened intently, sharing in all my sympathies, grinding his teeth over my little local misfortunes. And when we reached our door, he took my hand again before entering, and said in a full voice, “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” CHAPTER VI. AN ODD COMPACT. Age, that forgets its yesterday’s company, often puts one to shame in the memories of long ago. I had pondered the problem, even while proposing it, of Joshua’s introduction to my uncle; and, behold! the dear soul recognized his guest at the first mention. His name was associated indirectly, it is true, with a momentous decision in his own life; yet, even so--well, one was not wont to look upon Uncle Jenico’s memory as the active partner in his constitution. It saved me some perplexity. I had left Joshua by his own request in the porch while I went to prepare my relative, who I found much refreshed by his sleep, and to whom I briefly recapitulated the tale of my rally with this old client, as I might call him. “Bring him in, by all means,” he said, adjusting his spectacles, and then beaming at me through them. “Poor soul, poor fellow, to have suffered all these years under the stigma of an unfounded slander!” He spoke with a new-awakened loudness; the door was close at hand; the visitor heard. In a moment he came striding in, hat in hand, his eyes glittering. “Mr. Paxton,” he said; “Mr. Paxton! You are worthy to be this dear lad’s guardian! I can say no more.” The two men shook hands, with a full understanding, it seemed; and a pregnant minute ticked itself out between them. “You come off a long journey?” asked my uncle, at the end.