“Mr. Turnbull, don’t you know me?”

“No, sir,” said the host of the George and Dragon, after a puzzled stare, “I can’t say I do, sir.”

The stranger smiled a little sadly, and shook his head:  and with a gentle laugh, still holding his hand in a very friendly way, he said, “I should have known you anywhere, Mr. Turnbull—­anywhere on earth or water.  Had you turned up on the Himalayas, or in a junk on the Canton river, or as a dervish in the mosque of St. Sophia, I should have recognised my old friend, and asked what news from Golden Friars.  But of course I’m changed.  You were a little my senior; and one advantage among many you have over your juniors is that you don’t change as we do.  I have played many a game of hand-ball in the inn-yard of the George, Mr. Turnbull.  You often wagered a pot of ale on my play; you used to say I’d make the best player of fives, and the best singer of a song, within ten miles round the meer.  You used to have me behind the bar when I was a boy, with more of an appetite than I have now.  I was then at Mardykes Hall, and used to go back in old Marlin’s boat.  Is old Marlin still alive?”

“Ay, that—­he—­is,” said Turnbull slowly, as he eyed the stranger again carefully.  “I don’t know who you can be, sir, unless you are—­the boy—­William Feltram.  La! he was seven or eight years younger than Philip.  But, lawk!—­Well—­By Jen, and be you Willie Feltram?  But no, you can’t!”

“Ay, Mr. Turnbull, that very boy—­Willie Feltram—­even he, and no other; and now you’ll shake hands with me, not so formally, but like an old friend.”

“Ay, that I will,” said honest Richard Turnbull, with a great smile, and a hearty grasp of his guest’s hand; and they both laughed together, and the younger man’s eyes, for he was an affectionate fool, filled up with tears.

“And I want you to tell me this,” said William, after they had talked a little quietly, “now that there is no one to interrupt us, what has become of my brother Philip?  I heard from a friend an account of his health that has caused me unspeakable anxiety.”

“His health was not bad; no, he was a hardy lad, and liked a walk over the fells, or a pull on the lake; but he was a bit daft, every one said, and a changed man; and, in troth, they say the air o’ Mardykes don’t agree with every one, no more than him.  But that’s a tale that’s neither here nor there.”

“Yes,” said William, “that was what they told me—­his mind affected.  God help and guard us!  I have been unhappy ever since; and if I only knew it was well with poor Philip, I think I should be too happy.  And where is Philip now?”

“He crossed the lake one night, having took leave of Sir Bale.  They thought he was going to old Trebeck’s up the Fells.  He likes the Feltrams, and likes the folk at Mardykes Hall—­though those two families was not always o’er kind to one another.  But Trebeck seed nowt o’ him, nor no one else; and what has gone wi’ him no one can tell.”