“Now, tell me, tell me, while Jane gets you something to eat.  No, Jane, you mustn’t talk to Master Tom yet, to bother about how much he’s grown;—­nonsense, I must have him all to myself, Jane.  Go and get him some dinner.  Now, Tom,” as if he was afraid of losing a moment; “you have been a dear boy to write to me every week; but there are so many questions which only word of mouth will answer, and I have stored up dozens of them!  I want to know what a coral reef really looks like, and if you saw any trepangs upon them?  And what sort of strata is the gold really in?  And you saw one of those giant rays; I want a whole hour’s talk about the fellow.  And—­What an old babbler I am! talking to you when you should be talking to me.  Now begin.  Let us have the trepangs first.  Are they real Holothurians or not?”

And Tom began, and told for a full half-hour, interrupted then by some little comment of the old man’s, which proved how prodigious was the memory within, imprisoned and forced to feed upon itself.

“You seem to know more about Australia than I do, father,” said Tom at last.

“No, child; but Mary Armsworth, God bless her! comes down here almost every evening to read your letters to me; and she has been reading to me a book of Mrs. Lee’s Adventures in Australia, which reads like a novel; delicious book—­to me at least.  Why, there is her step outside, I do believe, and her father’s with her!”

The lighter woman’s step was inaudible to Tom; but the heavy, deliberate waddle of the banker was not.  He opened the house-door, and then the parlour-door, without knocking; but when he saw the visitor, he stopped on the threshold with outstretched arms.

“Hillo, ho! who have we here?  Our prodigal son returned, with his pockets full of nuggets from the diggings.  Oh, mum’s the word, is it?” as Tom laid his finger on his lips.  “Come here, then, and let’s have a look at you!” and he catches both Tom’s hands in his, and almost shakes them off.  “I knew you were coming, old boy!  Mary told me—­she’s in all the old man’s secrets.  Come along, Mary, and see your old playfellow.  She has got a little fruit for the old gentleman.  Mary, where are you I always colloguing with Jane.”

Mary comes in:  a little dumpty body, with a yellow face, and a red nose, the smile of an angel, and a heart full of many little secrets of other people’s—­and of one great one of her own, which is no business of any man’s—­and with fifty thousand pounds as her portion, for she is an only child.  But no man will touch that fifty thousand; for “no one would marry me for myself,” says Mary; “and no one shall marry me for my money.”

So she greets Tom shyly and humbly, without looking in his face, yet very cordially; and then slips away to deposit on the table a noble pine-apple.

“A little bit of fruit from her greenhouse,” says the old man in a disparaging tone:  “and, oh Jane, bring me a saucer.  Here’s a sprat I just capered out of Hemmelford mill-pit; perhaps the Doctor would like it fried for supper, if it’s big enough not to fall through the gridiron.”