At last, when full four years were past and gone since Tom started for South America, he descended from the box of the day-mail, with a serene and healthful countenance; and with no more look of interest in his face than if he had been away on a two days’ visit, shouldered his carpet-bag, and started for his father’s house.  He stopped, however; as there appeared from the inside of the mail a face which he must surely know.  A second look told him that it was none other than John Briggs.  But how altered!  He had grown up into a very handsome man,—­tall and delicate-featured, with long black curls, and a black moustache.  There was a slight stoop about his shoulders, as of a man accustomed to too much sitting and writing; and he carried an eye-glass, whether for fashion’s sake, or for his eyes’ sake, was uncertain.  He was wrapt in a long Spanish cloak, new and good; wore well-cut trousers, and (what Tom, of course, examined carefully) French boots, very neat, and very thin.  Moreover, he had lavender kid-gloves on.  Tom looked and wondered, and walked half round him, sniffing like a dog when he examines into the character of a fellow dog.

“Hum!—­his mark seems to be at present P.P.—­prosperous party:  so there can be no harm in renewing our acquaintance.  What trade on earth does he live by, though?  Editor of a newspaper? or keeper of a gambling-table?  Begging his pardon, he looks a good deal more like the latter than the former.  However—­”

And he walked up and offered his hand, with “How d’e do, Briggs?  Who would have thought of our falling from the skies against each other in this fashion?”

Mr. Briggs hesitated a moment, and then took coldly the offered hand.

“Excuse me; but the circumstances of my visit here are too painful to allow me to wish for society.”

And Mr. Briggs withdrew, evidently glad to escape.

“Has he vampoosed with the contents of a till, that he wishes so for solitude?” asked Tom; and, shouldering his carpet-bag a second time, with a grim inward laugh, he went to his father’s house, and hung up his hat in the hall, just as if he had come in from a walk, and walked into the study; and not finding the old man, stepped through the garden to Mark Armsworth’s, and in at the drawing-room window, frightening out of her wits a short, pale, ugly girl of seventeen, whom he discovered to be his old playfellow, Mary.  However, she soon recovered her equanimity:  he certainly never lost his.

“How d’e do, darling?  How you are grown! and how well you look!  How’s your father?  I hadn’t anything particular to do, so I thought I’d come home and see you all, and get some fishing.”

And Mary, who had longed to throw her arms round his neck, as of old, and was restrained by the thought that she was grown a great girl now, called in her father, and all the household; and after a while the old Doctor came home, and the fatted calf was killed, and all made merry over the return of this altogether unrepentant prodigal son, who, whether from affectation, or from that blunted sensibility which often comes by continual change and wandering, took all their affection and delight with the most provoking coolness.