A RETROSPECT—AND A FLUTTERING OF HEARTS.

Comethup Willis had passed his sixteenth birthday, and could afford to smile, with something of complacency, at the thought of that small and trembling boy who, eight long years before, had parted from the captain at the school gate on a certain summer evening. Yet, looking back over the years themselves, though they had been long in the going, the span of them seemed not so great after all. Comethup thought, with a comfortable sigh of content, what happy years they had been; what a wonderful time of close, strong friendships, and boyish vows of faithfulness; what days of work and play, and strong and vigorous life; what nights of perfect, dreamless sleep!

It had indeed been a happy time; he wondered, in his grateful heart, if ever boy had been so blessed before. The school had been a good and healthy one—a place where a boy was taught to work hard and to play harder; and Comethup, in the atmosphere of it, had grown into a tall, straight-limbed lad, with a strength about him which his dreamy face and slow, quiet smile belied.

He sat on a seat in the playground, with his head leaning against the trunk of a tree, and dreamily watched the boys at play, and thought about the eight years that had slipped so peacefully by. To-morrow was to be his last day at school; to-morrow the captain was coming, quite early in the morning, and they were going away together in the evening. The captain always came early on great match days; and to-morrow was a great match day, and Comethup was to play for the school for the last time.

Comethup thought of the captain with tenderness; remembered his many visits to the school, and the keen delight he had taken in his young friend’s progress. Was it not the captain who had been present on that memorable occasion when Comethup Willis made his first century? That was two years ago, before the boy had shown signs of growing to his present height. It is a matter for doubt as to which of them—the captain or Comethup—trembled the most on that occasion. It had been one of those disastrous days, from the schoolboy’s standpoint, when luck had gone clean against them; when unfeeling rivals had bowled balls and manipulated catches in a manner which appeared to leave no hope of victory. Comethup had gone in last but one, and it was the first great match he had played in. He remembered now, as though it were yesterday, how he had seemed to see a crowd of faces in a great square about him, and here and there a little patch of colour from a lady’s dress; remembered, too, how he had passed the captain on his way to the wicket, and of how the captain, in a trembling voice, had whispered to him huskily to save the day. As he bent over his bat for a moment he murmured a prayer—for which he may surely be forgiven—that God would let him save the day and please the captain.

His heart leaped a little, even now, at the thought of that day; at the thought of how he managed to get most of the bowling, while the other batsmen “kept his end up”; of the cheering, frantic crowd of boys as he hit as he had never hit before—as one inspired, indeed—while the score crept steadily up on the board; of the wild tumult when the hit was made which assured them of victory; of the carrying out of his bat, while a score of youngsters struggled for the honour of bearing him shoulder-high to the tent. He remembered it all perfectly, and smiled at the recollection; smiled, too, to think how the captain had marched proudly in front while the boy was carried along; and of how, when he grasped Comethup’s hand, there had been tears in the little gentleman’s eyes.

In everything that had happened in his school life the captain seemed to have taken a prominent place. There was scarcely a boy in the great school who did not know him—scarcely one, indeed, with whose name he was not familiar. Nearly every half-holiday had seen his erect figure turn in at the gates, and his quick eyes, under the gray eyebrows, look about in search for Comethup. On summer days, when the cricket field was dotted with white fingers and the pleasant click of bat against ball was heard in the drowsy afternoon, the captain was there, and never a stroke, good or bad, escaped him; on winter days, when the snow was deep and boys were blowing on cold fingers, and the sharp cries and shouts of the sliders cut keenly through the frosty air, there was the captain again, buttoned to the chin, clapping his gloved hands furiously, and laughing with the best of them. He had become, in time, quite an institution, and may be said to have again considerably renewed his youth, in that place where youth was monarch of all.

And to-morrow was to end it; to-morrow the last farewells must be said, and he would go away, appropriately enough, with the captain. It had been arranged that he was to stay for a week with the captain in the place of his birth before going on to London to join his aunt; after that the plans for him were indefinite.

Curiously enough, during all the years of his school life he had never once visited the old town; something had always occurred to prevent his doing so. It was but a few miles distant from the sea; but the captain had visited him so frequently, and was always to be expected on half-holidays; and his own holidays were spent, from start to finish, with his aunt in London, so that he really had had no opportunity of going back to the old place. But now the captain had begged him to spend a week at his cottage, and Comethup, after consulting Miss Carlaw, had gladly accepted.

The boy had heard frequently, through the captain, of the welfare of those in whom he was interested. Not having seen them since he had been a child himself, it was difficult to realize that changes could have taken place, or that others, as well as himself, must have grown older. He thought of ’Linda still as a little child wandering in the garden among the drifting leaves and under the whispering trees; saw Medmer Theed, the shoemaker, hammering away at his work, without an additional wrinkle; was forced to believe, in a vague fashion, that Brian must have grown, because he himself had grown, and Brian was certainly older. The captain had shaken his head more than once at the mention of Brian’s name, and hinted that father and son did not pull well together.

“Not the lad’s fault, you know, Comethup,” he had said, “although I never liked the boy. But Robert Carlaw ought never to have been a father—ought never to have been anything, for the matter of that. And yet the boy’s clever, I’m told; but it’s a cleverness, an infernal smartness, I don’t like.”

The afternoon wore away, and Comethup was roused from his reverie by the clanging of the bell summoning the boys to roll-call. He got up lazily and stretched himself, and suddenly saw a small boy standing before him, panting and eager.

“Willis, there’s some one to see you.”

“See me? Where?” He thought at first that it might be the captain, who had not been able to wait longer, in his eagerness for the morrow.

“Out by the gate there,” said the small boy, pointing behind him. “A man—a young man. Asked me to find you.”

“All right,” cried Comethup, and went leaping and striding toward the gate. There seemed to be no one there at first, until he went out a pace or two into the road; and there, leaning easily with his back against the wall, was a young man smoking a cigarette. “Did you want to see——” began Comethup; and then, as the young man turned quickly, the boy stopped, and looked at him with a puzzled expression for a moment; as the other smiled and threw back his head, Comethup gasped out, “Why—it’s Brian!”

Brian nodded, and stepped forward and shook Comethup by the hand. It was the first time they had met since Comethup had left the old place with his aunt; yet there were things about this tall, handsome fellow of eighteen that were the things he had known in the Brian who had been a child. It was the same smile that broke over his face suddenly, like light; the dark eyes, that seemed to see so much farther and so much more than any other eyes; the brown hair, waving back from his forehead, and worn rather long; the slightly swaggering fashion of carrying himself—the fashion which his father had carried to an excess. There were, besides all this, a carelessness of dress and a recklessness of manner that seemed to be a part of his natural growth, too.

“Yes; it’s Brian. I thought I might be able to see you. By Jove! you haven’t altered a bit, my cousin of the queer name. Of course you’re bigger, but you’ve still got that angelic face and that maiden air of goodness. I’ll put you into a poem some day, only no one will believe I’ve drawn you from life. There, let’s stop jesting; I want you to help me. The truth of the matter is, there’s been a kick-up between my father and myself; we never did hit it; his ways are not my ways, and he’s a blackguard, and not with my sort of blackguardism either.” He laughed, and clapped a hand on Comethup’s shoulder. “Look here, old boy, I’m not envying you the plums of life you’ve got, but I want—oh, I have the right, as far as that goes—I want you to help me.”

“Why, of course,” began Comethup, “if I can——”

“You can do everything. According to my father, you stole my birthright from me, you rascal, although that wasn’t your fault. Some of us get the bread in this world, and the others, for all the asking, get the stone. Let’s cut all this and come to the point. I’m going to London; it’s the only place where a man with brains—and I am a man now, although I am only eighteen, and I know I’ve got the brains—it’s the only place where a man can do anything, or show what stuff is in him. In the country, among these grinning, slow, dead-and-alive yokels, one can’t move; one seems to get stuck in their beastly clayey soil, and to take root there and never to move again. London’s the place; I saw it once when I was a boy; I’ve dreamed of it ever since. I know what I can do there; I’ll make men recognise me. But I’m a beggar, so far as money is concerned, and I’m heavily in debt. I don’t care a hang about the debts; dad’ll have to pay them; that was what the row was about. However, it’s his own fault, and in any case it doesn’t matter now. What I want to know is this: can you let me have enough money to take me to London, and give me a bit over until I find my feet? I know you’ve got plenty, and I don’t know any one else to whom I can turn. I knew you were here, because I saw the captain—that old starched chap—a day or two back, and he told me where you were.”

“I’ll gladly help you,” said Comethup. “How much money do you want? I am afraid I haven’t very much.”

“Well, have you got five pounds you can spare?”

Now it happened that within the past year Miss Charlotte Carlaw, in the pride of her heart, had been in the habit of breaking her promise to the captain and forwarding sums of money to Comethup whenever she could find an excuse for so doing—whenever, for instance, he had made a big score at cricket, or had written her a letter with which she was particularly pleased. Moreover, as every bill—and they were not many—which he contracted was promptly paid, without question, by his aunt, he found it somewhat difficult, as a mere schoolboy, to get rid of all the money he had, although it seemed to slip through his fingers pretty quickly. Only on the previous day Miss Carlaw had sent him twenty pounds in bank notes, with a message to the effect that, as he was visiting the captain, he would probably want some money to spend, and ten pounds was for that; and, as he was now a gentleman at large and his school days were left behind, he would want some further money in his pocket, and ten pounds was for that.

“I don’t think five pounds is much good to you,” said Comethup. “Hadn’t you better take ten?”

“By all means,” exclaimed Brian, with much alacrity. “Hadn’t the least idea you’d got so much. By George! I shall be a millionaire; ten pounds will last a deuce of a long time.”

Comethup put his hand into his pocket and produced the money. “Don’t you think,” he said, “that it would be better for you to go and see my aunt—your aunt, too, you know—and tell her what you mean to do? She’s awfully good, and I know that she——”

“No, thanks, I’d rather not; I had one experience with the old girl, and that was enough. Oh, I’ll get on capitally. And if I want anything more, I can easily come to you. You won’t mind, will you?”

“Not a bit,” said Comethup. “I’ll give you our address in London, and you can write to me. I shall be up there in a week’s time.”

He wrote it down on the back of an envelope and gave it to Brian. They shook hands again quite heartily, and Brian, retaining Comethup’s hand for a moment, said, in his friendly fashion: “Wish me luck. I’m going to set the Thames on fire, if ever a man set it flaring yet. You know what that means, don’t you? They say that of any one who’s going to do something more wonderful than any one else. I know what’s in me; I know what I can do. And that wretched old sleepy hollow where you and I once lived, Comethup—I’ve done with the infernal place. It shall be proud of me some day—proud to think that I lived there, that I was born there; oh, I’ll make them whisper my name with awe, and condone all my past offences. Good-bye, old chap; it’s awfully good of you, and some day, when I’m rich and famous, I’ll pay it back—I will, indeed. Good-bye; I’ll write and let you know how I get on. But you’ll hear of me—oh, you’ll hear of me.”

He crammed the envelope and the notes into his pocket and set off down the road, turning once to wave his hand to Comethup, who stood at the gate watching him.

The captain turned in briskly at the school gates on the following morning immediately after breakfast. He seemed to glow with the conscious pride of one intimately associated with the most important man of the day; to be proud of the fact that he was bearing off the boy whom it was the school’s delight to honour, for Comethup was the head boy of the school and captain of the Eleven—a man whom little boys regarded with awe, as he, when a little boy, had once regarded the captains who had long since passed out of the school. Very proud, too, was the captain to have this big lad slip his hand under his own weaker arm and stroll with him about the playground and among groups of admiring boys; prouder still when the head master, whom the modest captain regarded as a very wonder for learning, came to him and shook hands and murmured a few appropriate words about the loss the school would suffer with the departure of Comethup Willis.

The day, with its cricket match—in which Comethup covered himself, for the last time, with glory—came to an end, and the captain and the boy were free to depart. A fly was at the gate; Comethup’s boxes were piled upon it, and a crowd of younger boys had gathered about to see him go and to give him a final cheer. In the pride of the hour he had determined to drive the captain the whole of the way home, in order to save the trouble of the short train journey; the captain had expostulated, but Comethup had laughingly had his way.

As the fly started, the eldest boy, who would be captain next term in Comethup’s place, cried lustily, “Three cheers for Willis!” and Captain Garraway-Kyle stood up in the vehicle, snatched off his hat and waved it, and responded heartily. As he sat down again, and the fly, turning the corner of the road, left the familiar faces behind, he said in a gratified tone: “That’s music, boy; that’s the best of all music. When it comes from the throats of those who love you, it’s the finest orchestra in the world; sometimes it comes falsely, and means nothing; and then, if you have but the right ears to hear, the music is all jangled horribly, and means nothing but lies, and fawnings, and hypocrisy. But that’s the right music, boys—the music that comes from those who love us.”

They drove on for some time in silence, and then the captain said abruptly: “I had a visitor this morning, in a state of great excitement; he hasn’t been near me since you went to London. Can you guess?”

Comethup looked at him inquiringly and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Who was it?”

“Your uncle, Robert Carlaw. Said he’d had a great shock; that Brian had left him suddenly, without giving the slightest warning of where he was going or what his intentions were; he had merely left a curt note—I saw the note, and it was really very rude—a curt note saying he was going away, and did not intend to return or to trouble his father again. I suppose that mad fellow, your uncle, was fond of the boy in his way; at all events, he ramped and raved about the place, and talked of ingratitude, and serpents’ teeth, and thankless children, and what not, until I was quite glad to get rid of him. I wonder where the boy has gone?”

“I saw him yesterday,” said Comethup. “He came here—to the school, you know—to see me. He told me he was going to London to make his fortune; that he’d quarrelled with his father, and didn’t mean to go back to him. I was awfully surprised to see him.”

“But what’s he going to do in London, without friends and without money?” Then, as Comethup sat silent, looking before him, the captain dropped a hand on the boy’s arm. “Comethup, he didn’t come to you merely to say good-bye, after seeing nothing of you for eight years. I suppose you——”

“Oh, I could see that he was in distress,” broke in Comethup, hurriedly, “and when I’d got such a lot I couldn’t very well let him go to London without a penny. You see, London is a big place, and he might starve—anything might happen. So I just gave him—well, just a little money; and I told him to write to me and let me know how he was getting on; I gave him my address in London.”

The captain was silent for a few moments, and then he said: “Well, well, I suppose you were right; you couldn’t let the fellow go without a penny. But if I were you, Comethup, I shouldn’t mention the matter to your aunt. I detest deceit, but there are some things it’s just as well in this world to say nothing about. Miss Carlaw—very properly, no doubt—dislikes your cousin, and she might be hurt if she thought you were spending her money on him. Personally, I don’t like the fellow, but I think it was the only thing you could do. But I don’t think I’d say anything to Miss Carlaw about it.”

It was quite a new sensation, and a very pleasant and exciting one, to drive into the old town seated beside the captain. The eight years, which had seemed to bring so many changes to the growing boy, had not changed the place at all; it appeared a little dwarfed, perhaps, grown smaller and less imposing; the gaunt old buildings, which had towered to the sky in the imagination of the small child, had dwindled, in the eyes of the youth, to mere ordinary dwellings. But, best of all, the things about it that were changeless were the solemn hush and peace that lay upon it, a stillness that belonged to no other place. The roar of London, the busy, murmuring life of school, were dropped completely behind; it was like coming home to rest, to some little place set in the heart of woods, after the toil and fret of a long day.

Homer was there, at the door of the captain’s cottage, saluting in the old fashion; he had grown a little grayer and a little less erect in attitude. The old familiar room, looking out over the garden and the street, seemed smaller than before and a little shabbier. Of everything the boy remembered so well, the captain alone seemed as though the years had leaped over him and left him unaltered.

Comethup was up very early the next morning—long before the captain had risen; he had a feeling that he would like to visit some of the old places alone. He lifted the latch of the cottage door—for no one thought of locking doors in that part of the country—and stole out softly through the garden and into the street. One or two early risers whom he passed looked at him curiously, and he thought he recognised some faces he had seen in the streets as a child. He sniffed the sweet morning air with delight, thinking how good it was to be rich and free and healthy; he might have thought, too, how good it was to be very young, but for the fact that he did not consciously appreciate that blessing.

He went to the house in which he had been born; it was held by strangers now, and there were curtains of a hideous colour in the windows, and one of the blinds had been drawn up by a careless hand and hung awry. But the roses were there in all their beauty—roses grown for other hands to pluck and to delight other eyes. He leaned over the little gate which led from the street and looked about him; looked into all the familiar corners that had held such terrors for him when he had been very young indeed; thought of the mother who had wandered there, as he had heard his father describe. And that brought him quite naturally to the churchyard, where he found the two mounds—a little less prominent than they had been—side by side, with some fresh flowers upon them. He knew that the flowers must have come from the captain, and his heart swelled a little, with renewed gratitude to his old friend.

It was too early for breakfast yet, and he set off through the town; aimlessly, as he told himself, and yet of fixed purpose. There seemed to be but one place that he desired to visit, and his pulses thumped a little, in an unaccustomed fashion, as he drew near to it; it was the garden in which he had found ’Linda.

The years had brought one change on the very threshold of it: one of the gates—that which had hung by a single hinge so long—had given way completely, and lay prone upon the grass inside, half covered with dead leaves and choking weeds. Comethup picked his way across it and walked cautiously under the trees. Bright as the morning was, it seemed quite dark here, and he shivered a little as he went on. He almost expected to see a little figure he remembered so clearly spring up again in his path and run to him, crying his name; but no one was in the garden, and only a bird fluttered among the leaves and cried in quick alarm to his mate. He made the circuit of the house, and looked up at the blank windows; but the place seemed quite deserted, and he came away, wondering a little impatiently where the girl could be, and filled with a determination to invoke the aid of the captain in order that he might see her.

A glance at his watch told him that the captain’s breakfast hour was near at hand, and he hurried back to the cottage. As he drew near to it he saw that some one was in the garden—a young girl, tall and slim, in a sober gray gown, with little ruffles at the throat and wrists. Her back was turned toward him, and she was busily gathering the choicest of the captain’s roses. Even then no suspicion of her identity entered his mind; he stopped for a moment, wondering, and then walked to the gate and pushed it open.

The click of the iron latch caught her ear, and she turned swiftly, with the roses held close against her breast. Comethup caught his breath as he looked at her. Something strangely familiar, and yet strangely unfamiliar, was in her attitude, and in the glance she gave him; he was still tugging at his memory and hesitating on that half recognition of her, when she came forward slowly, smiling and colouring a little. And then he knew her.

“’Linda!” he faltered, and pulled his cap off awkwardly.

She thrust the bundle of roses into the curve of one arm and shyly held out her hand to him, yet with a self-possession that only increased his nervousness. He took the hand and held it, and did not quite know what to do with it, until she released it, and laughed, and looked at her roses.

“The captain told me you were coming, Comethup,” she said. And then, quite irrelevantly, “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

“Lovely,” murmured Comethup absently, looking at her rather than at the sky. “I—I’ve been looking for you at—at the old house.”

“Have you? I got up quite early this morning; we must have missed each other. You see, the captain likes roses, and I thought that these would look nice—in a bowl, you know—on the breakfast table.”

“I’m sure they will,” said Comethup, getting his voice a little under control and wondering vaguely why his throat was so dry. “Do you know, I didn’t know you at first, ’Linda; I’d quite forgotten that you’d be—be grown up. It’s such a long time, you see; everything seems to have altered.”

“Yes. You’ve altered, Comethup, very much.” She plucked another rose and added it to the bunch, and pressed her face down upon them. Without looking up, she said, “Shall we go in and put them in water?”

“Yes, I think we’d better.” He was so much in awe of her that he was quite afraid to come near her, and kept his distance, accordingly, in the narrow path. He opened the door for her, and, in her nervousness, she caught her foot on the step and tumbled against him; they both blushed and laughed, and she dropped some of the roses. Comethup stooped to pick them up, and found that they were not at all easy things to get hold of; they seemed to slip out of his fingers as easily as they had slipped out of hers. However, they were all picked up at last, and the two went together into the captain’s little sitting room.

There a bowl had to be found, and Comethup was quite glad to get away for a moment to fetch water, in order that he might recover his feelings. She was very busy with the flowers when he came back, setting them in place in the big bowl, and singing softly to herself as she did so. Once, when a flower fell over the edge, Comethup sprang to reach it, and their hands met on the table; the hand and arm seemed to burn, and he wondered, desperately and foolishly, if his face had turned red, and why it was so impossible to talk naturally and easily to her—why, indeed, he could find nothing to talk about.

The entrance of the captain seemed to put them both at their ease. He came a little way into the room and stood there, with his hands behind him, looking with a pleased smile at Comethup and at the face of the girl glancing up at him from the flowers. She nodded brightly to him and ran across and took him by the lapels of his coat and kissed him.

“So you stole a march on me, eh?” said the captain, glancing from one to the other. “While the old boy is asleep you two youngsters have been getting the benefit of the morning air, eh? Well, you look as bright and fresh as the morning, both of you.—What do you think of her, Comethup?”

Comethup laughed and blushed, shifted from one foot to the other, and weakly hazarded the opinion that she had grown.

“Grown!” exclaimed the captain. “I should think so. Time stands still with the old ones, but, Lord! what a change a year or two makes! Why, I remember the time when I had to stoop and bend my old back for her to stand on tiptoe to kiss me; and now—well, look at her, boy; I can keep as straight as a lance, and still the rogue’s lips can reach me. So you didn’t lose time about finding your old playmate, Comethup.”

“Well, sir,” said Comethup, “I found her in the garden here, only a few minutes ago.”

“Yes,” broke in ’Linda, “but he says that he’d been to look for me, and couldn’t find me.”

“And yet found you after all, eh? Trust him for that. Now let’s have some breakfast.”

’Linda, after a little protest, took off her hat and sat down with them. She kept very near to the captain, and seldom looked at Comethup, save now and then shyly, after he had found his tongue, and was relating in boyish fashion some of his school adventures. The captain threw in interjectional remarks for ’Linda’s benefit, such as “There’s a boy for you!” or “What do you think of that now?” and others to the like effect. After breakfast, the girl, in seeming haste, put on her hat and hurriedly kissed the captain, shyly touched Comethup’s hand, and prepared to depart. Comethup found his courage then and said blushingly:

“You know I’m only stopping with the captain for a week, ’Linda. I suppose—I hope I shall see you—very often?”

The captain broke in heartily before she had time to reply. “Why, of course; you must come to breakfast every morning, and then we can plan some excursion for the day and make the most of our time.”

“Yes,” urged Comethup eagerly. “We might go for a drive sometimes, you know. It would be rather jolly, sir”—he turned to the captain appealingly—“it would be jolly if we could go for a picnic one day, and take our lunch with us, wouldn’t it? You see, ’Linda, we could go wherever you liked.”

“That would be splendid!” said the girl, clasping her hands. “I’ve never been for a drive in my life.”

“Then we’ll go to-morrow,” said Comethup. “We can start directly after breakfast and make a day of it.”

The captain and Comethup spent that first day in strolling about the neighbourhood and sitting out on the sandy hillocks beyond the town, talking—mostly of the future—and dreaming old dreams over again of the past. There seemed so much to be said in that familiar atmosphere; it seemed so easy to live over again the old days, when Comethup had known no other existence.

On the day arranged for the picnic ’Linda came running into the garden just as breakfast was placed on the table; breathlessly kissed the captain, and shook hands with Comethup; announced, with a roguish shake of her head, that she would not take off her hat, as they were to start so soon; and chattered ceaselessly and happily about everything—the weather, the horses that were to take them, the road by which they should go, and a thousand other things. Comethup had ordered a capacious carriage from the inn the night before—an open carriage to hold four, with two horses. Homer—most wonderful of men—had prepared a huge luncheon basket, to the contents of which Comethup had added a couple of bottles of claret. The carriage drew up at the gate just as they had finished breakfast, and ’Linda ran out to inspect it.

Comethup followed her, and stood beside her at the gate, waiting for the captain. “I’m so glad,” he said, slowly, “that it’s a fine day, and—and that you’re so pleased.”

She turned round swiftly, her dark eyes dancing. “Oh, it’s the first real holiday I’ve ever had; I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about it. But”—her brows wrinkled a little anxiously—“won’t this cost—cost a lot of money?” She waved her hand toward the carriage.

“No, not much,” said Comethup carelessly. “Besides, it doesn’t matter; we’ll have a jolly day, and you know I’ve got plenty of money.”

He heard a sigh flutter from her lips, and had a boyish longing to tell her that he should like to share every penny he had, or every penny he ever would have, with her; that she might never have any fear that he would go away and leave her without a holiday. He was almost making up his mind to say that he would give her just such a holiday as this every day of his life, irrespective of weather, when the captain came down the path and joined them, followed by Homer staggering under the weight of the luncheon basket.

The captain had a new tie for the occasion, and was dressed in his best; he gallantly handed ’Linda in, and she and Comethup took their places at the back of the carriage, the captain facing them. The captain was in high feather; heard the regular beat of the horses’ hoofs behind him, and held himself more erect in consequence. Comethup and ’Linda sat silent, except when they answered the captain’s remarks, or when ’Linda said something about the beauty of the day, or of the scenery, on which occasions Comethup eagerly and cordially indorsed her opinion.

They were to drive to a little wood the beauty of which was celebrated in the neighbourhood, although neither the captain nor his companions had ever penetrated so far. It was some fifteen miles distant, near a little old-world village, and they leaned back contentedly in their seats with the prospect of a long and pleasant drive before them. Suddenly, from the side of the road, they heard a hail, and the horses were drawn up sharply. Comethup turned about, and saw a figure hurrying toward them—the figure of a man, with long coat-tails flapping in the wind and a hand waving to them. The captain frowned a little, and muttered something under his breath. The figure came rapidly nearer, and disclosed itself as that of Mr. Robert Carlaw, heated and flushed; a little more full of habit, Comethup thought, than in former days, and a little more red in the face, but the same smiling, swaggering Robert Carlaw as of old.

He stopped at the carriage door, and pulled off his hat with a flourish to ’Linda; saw Comethup, and fell back a step, in delighted amazement. “What!” he cried, “is it possible that I look again upon the little nephew of whom I have thought so often? And yet, little no longer. Alas! time works changes upon us all. My boy”—he spoke with some emotion—“give me your hand. Little Comethup! And so you’ve come back to your old haunts, you lucky man of fortune, to turn the heads of all the pretty girls, eh?” He glanced at ’Linda, and smiled and shook his head. “Gad! you make me wish my youth could come back to me, although I never had your chances. With good looks, and fortune, and youth—well, the ball’s at your feet now; you’re a lucky rascal. And so we drive our carriage, do we?”

Comethup had shaken hands with him somewhat diffidently. “I am very glad to see you, uncle,” he said, as soon as Mr. Carlaw had finished speaking. “We’re just off for a picnic; I’m staying with the captain for a week, before I go on to London. I’ve just left school, you know.”

“A picnic! Oh, for the days of picnics, and pretty faces, and murmuring brooks, and the deuce knows what else! Gone, alas! forever. But what do I see? A vacant seat. Youth and beauty on one side, and crabbed age on the other. Gad! I’ll balance you; youth and beauty run in couples, captain—crabbed age shall pair as well. I’ll join you.”

He had the carriage door open and a foot on the step before any one could speak. But the captain put out a hand. “My dear sir,” he said, “I can assure you that we did not contemplate an addition——”

But Mr. Robert Carlaw cut him short. “Not a word, not a word,” he exclaimed. “Picnics are like all other joyous things in the world—the more the merrier. And I’m not a great eater, by any means.” He was into the carriage by this time, and had dropped with a sigh of contentment beside the captain, thrusting that little gentleman ruthlessly out of the way. He closed the door, and the carriage moved on again.

He had taken the matter so completely by storm, and it was so impossible to tell him that he wasn’t wanted, and to stop the carriage and thrust him out again, that the three holiday-makers resigned themselves to the inevitable and sat in awkward silence, casting furtive glances at him.