that we were come to look after his corrody."

"Shoveller--what, a Shoveller of Cranbury? How fell ye in with
him?"

Ambrose told the adventures of their journey, and Randall exclaimed
"By my bau--I mean by my faith--if ye have ill-luck in uncles, ye
have had good luck in friends."

"No ill-luck in thee, good, kind uncle," said Stephen, catching at
his hand with the sense of comfort that kindred blood gives.

"How wottest thou that, child? Did not I--I mean did not Merryman
tell you, that mayhap ye would not be willing to own your uncle?"

"We deemed he was but jesting," said Stephen. "Ah!"

For a sudden twinkle in the black eyes, an involuntary twist of the
muscles of the face, were a sudden revelation to him. He clutched
hold of Ambrose with a sudden grasp; Ambrose too looked and recoiled
for a moment, while the colour spread over his face.

"Yes, lads. Can you brook the thought!--Harry Randall is the poor
fool!"

Stephen, whose composure had already broken down, burst into tears
again, perhaps mostly at the downfall of all his own expectations
and glorifications of the kinsman about whom he had boasted.
Ambrose only exclaimed "O uncle, you must have been hard pressed."
For indeed the grave, almost melancholy man, who stood before them,