The particular and accepted work to which Mr. Thompson was alluding had
turned quite pale, and was looking fixedly toward an open door leading
to the veranda, lately filled by gaping servants, and now the scene of
some vague tumult. As the noise continued, a man, shabbily dressed, and
evidently in liquor, broke through the opposing guardians, and staggered
into the room. The transition from the fog and darkness without to the
glare and heat within evidently dazzled and stupefied him. He removed
his battered hat, and passed it once or twice before his eyes, as he
steadied himself, but unsuccessfully, by the back of a chair. Suddenly,
his wandering glance fell upon the pale face of Charles Thompson; and
with a gleam of childlike recognition, and a weak, falsetto laugh, he
darted forward, caught at the table, upset the glasses, and literally
fell upon the prodigal's breast.

"Sha'ly! yo' d----d ol' scoun'rel, hoo rar ye!"

"Hush--sit down!--hush!" said Charles Thompson, hurriedly endeavoring to
extricate himself from the embrace of his unexpected guest.

"Look at 'm!" continued the stranger, unheeding the admonition, but
suddenly holding the unfortunate Charles at arm's length, in loving and
undisguised admiration of his festive appearance. "Look at 'm! Ain't he
nasty? Sha'ls, I'm prow of yer!"

"Leave the house!" said Mr. Thompson, rising, with a dangerous look in
his cold, gray eye. "Char-les, how dare you?"

"Simmer down, ole man! Sha'ls, who's th' ol' bloat? Eh?"

"Hush, man; here, take this!" With nervous hands, Charles Thompson