jester.

The gardens were nearly empty, for most people were sitting over
their supper-tables after the business of the day was over, and only
one or two figures in black gowns paced up and down in conversation.

"Come away, Ambrose," said Stephen at last. "He only meant to make
fools of us! Come, before he comes to gibe us for having heeded a
moment. Come, I say--here's this man coming to ask us what we are
doing here."

For a tall, well-made, well-dressed personage in the black or sad
colour of a legal official, looking like a prosperous householder,
or superior artisan, was approaching them, some attendant, as the
boys concluded belonging to the Temple. They expected to be turned
out, and Ambrose in an apologetic tone, began, "Sir, we were bidden
to meet a--a kinsman here."

"And even so am I," was the answer, in a grave, quiet tone, "or
rather to meet twain."

Ambrose looked up into a pair of dark eyes, and exclaimed "Stevie,
Stevie, 'tis he. 'Tis uncle Hal."

"Ay, 'tis all you're like to have for him," answered Harry Randall,
enfolding each in his embrace. "Lad, how like thou art to my poor
sister! And is she indeed gone--and your honest father too--and
none left at home but that hunks, little John? How and when died
she?"