enough to pay Uncle George everything I owe him—­not yet; another time I shall do better.  I was down with fever for a while and that cost me a good deal of what I had saved.  But I had to come back.  I met a man who told me Uncle George was ruined; that he had left this house and that somebody had put a sign on it, I thought at first that this must refer to you and your old arrangement in the basement, until I questioned him closer.  I knew how careless he had always been about his money transactions, and was afraid some one had taken advantage of him.  That’s why I was so upset when I came in a while ago:  I thought they had stolen his furniture as well.  The ship Mohican—­one of the old Barkeley line—­was sailing the day I reached the coast and I got aboard and worked my passage home.  I learned to do that on my way out.  I learned to wear a beard too.  Not very becoming, is it?”—­and a low, forced laugh escaped his lips.  “But shaving is not easy aboard ship or in the mines.”

Pawson made no reply.  He had been studying his guest the closer while he was talking, his mind more on the man than on what he was saying.  The old Harry, which the dim light of the hall and room had hidden, was slowly coming back to him:—­the quick turn of the head; the way his lips quivered when he laughed; the exquisitely modelled nose and brow, and the way the hair grew on the temples.  The tones of his voice, too, had the old musical ring.  It was the same madcap, daredevil boy mellowed and strengthened by contact with the outside world.  Next he scrutinized his hands, their backs bronzed and roughened by contact with the weather, and waited eagerly until some gesture opened the delicately turned fingers, exposing the white palms, and felt relieved and glad when he saw that they showed no rough usage.  His glance rested on his well-turned thighs, slender waist, and broad, strong shoulders and arms—­and then his eyes—­so clear, and his skin so smooth and fresh—­a clean soul in a clean body!  What joy would be Temple’s when he got his arms around this young fellow once more!

The wanderer reached for his cap and pushed back his chair.  For an instant he stood gazing into the smouldering coals as if he hated to leave their warmth, his brow clouded, his shoulders drawn back.  He had all the information he wanted—­all he had come in search of, although it was not exactly what he wished or what he had expected:—­his uncle ruined and an exile; his father half blind and Kate’s wedding expected any week.  That was enough at least for one night.

He stepped forward and grasped Pawson’s hand, his well-knit, alert body in contrast to the loosely jointed, long-legged, young attorney.