before his master could answer.

Hardly had he slammed the kitchen door behind him when the clatter and
stamp of a horse's hoofs were heard Outside, followed by an impatient
rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker.

The boy dropped his dishes: "Fo' Gawd, dat's Mister Harry!" he cried as
he started on a run for the door. "Don't nobody bang de do' down like
dat but him."

A slender, thoroughly graceful young fellow of twenty-one or two, booted
and spurred, his dark eyes flashing, his face tingling with the sting of
the early morning air, dashed past the obsequious darky and burst into
Temple's presence with the rush of a north-west breeze. He had ridden
ten miles since he vaulted into the saddle, had never drawn rein uphill
or down, and neither he nor the thoroughbred pawing the mud outside had
turned a hair.

"Hello, Uncle George!" Temple, as has been said, was Uncle George to
every girl and youth in Kennedy Square.

"Why, Harry!" He had sprung from his seat, napkin in hand and had him by
both shoulders, looking into his eyes as if he wanted to hug him, and
would the first thing he knew. "Where are you from--Moorlands? What a
rollicking chap you are, and you look so well and handsome, you dog! And
now tell me of your dear mother and your father. But first down with
you--here--right opposite--always your place, my dear Harry. Todd,
another shell of oysters and more waffles and coffee--everything, Todd,
and blazing hot: two shells, Todd--the sight of you, Harry, makes me
ravenous again, and I could have eaten my boots, when I got home an hour