“I’ve seen father’s grave, John,” were his first words to his brother.  “It’s beside the mother’s, but that old stone he put up to her must be moved and—­”

“All right, all right, old chap.  Stones are in your line, not mine.  Where’s dinner?  I want bread, not a stone, eh?”

Martin did not laugh, but shrugged his shoulders in good-tempered fashion.  His face had a measure of distinction his brother’s lacked, and indeed, while wanting John’s tremendous physical energy and robust determination, he possessed a finer intellect and instinct less animal.  Even abroad, during their earlier enterprises, Martin had first provided brains sufficient for himself and John; but an accident of fortune suddenly favoured the elder; and while John took full care that Martin should benefit with himself, he was pleased henceforth to read into his superior luck a revelation of superior intelligence, and from that moment followed his own inclinations and judgment.  He liked Martin no less, but never turned to him for counsel again after his own accidental good fortune; and henceforward assumed an elder brother’s manner and a show of superior wisdom.  In matters of the world and in knowledge of such human character as shall be found to congregate in civilisation’s van, or where precious metals and precious stones have been discovered to abound, John Grimbal was undoubtedly the shrewder, more experienced man; and Martin felt very well content that his elder brother should take the lead.  Since the advent of their prosperity a lively gratitude had animated his mind.  The twain shared nothing save bonds of blood, love of their native land, and parity of ambition, first manifested in early desires to become independent.  Together they had gone abroad, together they returned; and now each according to his genius designed to seek happiness where he expected to find it.  John still held interests in South Africa, but Martin, content with less fortune, and mighty anxious to be free of all further business, realised his wealth and now knew the limits of his income.

The brothers supped in good spirits and Will Blanchard’s sister waited upon them.  Chris was her “brother in petticoats,” people said, and indeed she resembled him greatly in face and disposition.  But her eyes were brown, like her dead father’s, and a gypsy splendour of black hair crowned her head.  She was a year younger than Will, wholly wrapped up in him and one other.

A familiarity, shy on Martin’s side and patronising in John, obtained between the brothers and their pretty attendant, for she knew all about them and the very cottage in which their parents had dwelt and died.  The girl came and went, answered John Grimbal’s jests readily, and ministered to them as one not inferior to those she served.  The elder man’s blue eyes were full of earthy admiration.  He picked his teeth between the courses and admired aloud, while Chris was from the room.

“’Tis wonderful how pretty all the women look, coming back to them after ten years of nigger girls.  Roses and cream isn’t in it with their skins, though this one’s dark as a clear night—­Spanish fashion.”