Jane, who knows Mark Armsworth’s humour, brings in the largest dish in the house, and Mark pulls out of his basket a great three-pound trout.

“Aha! my young rover; Old Mark’s right hand hasn’t forgot its cunning, eh?  And this is the month for them; fish all quiet now.  When fools go a-shooting, wise men go a-fishing!  Eh?  Come here, and look me over.  How do I wear, eh?  As like a Muscovy duck as ever, you young rogue?  Do you recollect asking me, at the Club dinner, why I was like a Muscovy duck?  Because I was a fat thing in green velveteen, with a bald red head, that was always waddling about the river bank.  Ah, those were days!  We’ll have some more of them.  Come up to-night and try the old ’21 bin.”

“I must have him myself to-night; indeed I must, Mark,” says the Doctor.

“All to yourself you selfish old rogue?”

“Why—­no—­”

“We’ll come down, then, Mary and I, and bring the ’21 with us, and hear all his cock-and-bull stories.  Full of travellers’ lies as ever, eh?  Well, I’ll come, and smoke my pipe with you.  Always the same old Mark, my lad,” nudging Tom with his elbow; “one fellow comes and borrows my money, and goes out and calls me a stingy old hunks because I won’t let him cheat me; another comes, and eats my pines, and drinks my port, goes home, and calls me a purse-proud upstart, because he can’t match ’em.  Never mind; old Mark’s old Mark; sound in the heart, and sound in the liver, just the same as thirty years ago, and will be till he takes his last quietus est—­

  ‘And drops into his grassy nest.’

Bye, bye, Doctor!  Come, Mary!”

And out he toddled, with silent little Mary at his heels.

“Old Mark wears well, body and soul,” said Tom.

“He is a noble, generous fellow, and as delicate-hearted as a woman withal, in spite of his conceit and roughness.  Fifty and odd years now, Tom, have we been brothers, and I never found him change.  And brothers we shall be, I trust, a few years more, till I see you back again from the East, comfortably settled.  And then—­”

“Don’t talk of that, sir, please!” said Tom, quite quickly and sharply.  “How ill poor Mary looks!”

“So they say, poor child; and one hears it in her voice.  Ah, Tom, that girl is an angel; she has been to me daughter, doctor, clergyman, eyes and library; and would have been nurse too, if it had not been for making old Jane jealous.  But she is ill.  Some love affair, I suppose—­”

“How quaint it is, that the father has kept all the animal vigour to himself, and transmitted none to the daughter.”

“He has not kept the soul to himself, Tom, or the eyes either.  She will bring me in wild flowers, and talk to me about them, till I fancy I can see them as well as ever.  Ah, well!  It is a sweet world still, Tom, and there are sweet souls in it.  A sweet world:  I was too fond of looking at it once, I suppose, so God took away my sight, that I might learn to look at Him.”  And the old man lay back in his chair, and covered his face with his handkerchief, and was quite still awhile.  And Tom watched him, and thought that he would give all his cunning and power to be like that old man.