Every time he glanced at his uncle the song sprang up, and he laughed so
immoderately that it looked like madness come upon him.

"Why, why, why, what are you laughing at, my dear boy," said Hippias, and
was provoked by the contagious exercise to a modest "ha! ha!"

"Why, what are you laughing at, uncle?" cried Richard.

"I really don't know," Hippias chuckled.

"Nor I, uncle! Sing, cuckoo!"

They laughed themselves into the pleasantest mood imaginable. Hippias
not only came aboveground, he flew about in the very skies, verting like
any blithe creature of the season. He remembered old legal jokes, and
anecdotes of Circuit; and Richard laughed at them all, but more at him--
he was so genial, and childishly fresh, and innocently joyful at his own
transformation, while a lurking doubt in the bottom of his eyes, now and
then, that it might not last, and that he must go underground again, lent
him a look of pathos and humour which tickled his youthful companion
irresistibly, and made his heart warm to him.

"I tell you what, uncle," said Richard, "I think travelling's a capital
thing."

"The best thing in the world, my dear boy," Hippias returned. "It makes
me wish I had given up that Work of mine, and tried it before, instead of
chaining myself to a task. We're quite different beings in a minute. I
am. Hem! what shall we have for dinner?"