Tom knelt down:  and the old man passed his hands in silence over and over the forehead, and face, and beard; while all stood silent.

Mark Armsworth burst out blubbering like a great boy: 

“I said so!  I always said so!  The devil could not kill him, and God wouldn’t!”

“You won’t go away again, dear boy?  I’m getting old—­and—­and forgetful; and I don’t think I could bear it again, you see.”

Tom saw that the old man’s powers were failing.  “Never again, as long as I live, daddy!” said he, and then, looking round,—­“I think that we are too many for my father.  I will come and shake hands with you all presently.”

“No, no,” said the Doctor.  “You forget that I cannot see you, and so must only listen to you.  It will be a delight to hear your voice and theirs;—­they all love you.”

A few moments of breathless congratulation followed, during which Mark had seized Tom by both his shoulders, and held him admiringly at arm’s length.

“Look at him, Mr. Mellot!  Mr. Stangrave!  Look at him!  As they said of Liberty Wilkes, you might rob him, strip him, and hit him over London Bridge:  and you find him the next day in the same place, with a laced coat, a sword by his side, and money in his pocket!  But how did you come in without our knowing?”

“I waited outside, afraid of what I might hear—­for how could I tell!” said he, lowering his voice; “but when I saw you go in, I knew all was right, and followed you; and when I heard my father laugh, I knew that he could bear a little surprise.  But, Stangrave, did you say?  Ah! this is too delightful, old fellow!  How’s Marie and the children?”

Stangrave, who was very uncertain as to how Tom would receive him, had been about to make his amende honorable in a fashion graceful, magnificent, and, as he expressed it afterwards laughingly to Thurnall himself, “altogether highfalutin:”  but what chivalrous and courtly words had arranged themselves upon the tip of his tongue, were so utterly upset by Tom’s matter-of-fact bonhomie, and by the cool way in which he took for granted the fact of his marriage, that he burst out laughing, and caught both Tom’s hands in his.

“It is delightful; and all it needs to make it perfect is to have Marie and the children here.”

“How many?” asked Tom.

“Two.”

“Is she as beautiful as ever!”

“More so, I think.”

“I dare say you’re right; you ought to know best, certainly.”

“You shall judge for yourself.  She is in London at this moment.”

“Tom!” says his father, who has been sitting quietly, his face covered in his handkerchief, listening to all, while holy tears of gratitude steal down his face.

“Sir!”

“You have not spoken to Grace yet!”

“Grace?” cries Tom, in a very different tone from that in which he had yet spoken.

“Grace Harvey, my boy.  She was in the room when you came in.”