When his step-father entered, he naturally bowed to the stranger, and motioned him to a seat, which the other accordingly took.  Lindsay certainly was, as Barney Casey had said, a very fine-looking man for his years.  He was tall, erect, and portly, somewhat inclined to corpulency, of a handsome, but florid countenance, in which might be read a large expression of cheerfulness and good humor, together with that peculiar tinge which results from conviviality.  Indeed, there could scarcely be witnessed a more striking contrast than that between his open, kind-looking features, and the sharp, disagreeable symmetry which marked those of his step-son with such a dark and unpleasant character.

“My servant tells me,” said Lindsay, courteously, “that you wished to see me.”

“I did, sir,” replied Woodward; “in that, he spoke correctly; I wished to see you, and I am glad to see you.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied the other, bowing again; “but—­ahem—­in the meantime, sir, you have the advantage of me.”

“And intend to keep it, sir, for a little,” replied Woodward with one of his cold smiles.  “I came to speak to you, sir, concerning your son who is abroad, and to ask if you have recently heard from himself or his uncle.”

“O, then, I presume, sir,” replied Lindsay, “you are an acquaintance or friend of his; if so, allow me to bid you welcome; nothing, I assure you, could afford either myself or my family greater pleasure than to meet and show attention to any friend of his.  Unfortunately, we have heard nothing from him or his uncle for nearly the last year and a half; but, you will be doubly welcome, sir, if you can assure us that they are both well.  His uncle, or rather I should, say his grand-uncle, for in that relation he stands to him, adopted him, and a kinder man does not live.”

“I believe Mr. Woodward and his uncle are both well, the former, I think, sir, is your step-son only.”

“Don’t say only, sir, he is just as much the son of my affection as his brother, and now, sir, may I request to know the name of the gentleman I am addressing?”

“Should you wish to see Henry Woodward himself, sir?”

“Dear sir, nothing would delight me more, and all of us, especially his mother; yet the ungrateful boy would never come near us, although he was pressed and urged to do so a hundred times.”

“Well, then, sir,” replied that gentleman, rising up, “he now stands before you; I am Henry Woodward, father.”

A hug that half strangled him was the first acknowledgment of his identity.  “Zounds, my dear Harry—­Harry, my dear boy, you’re welcome a thousand times, ten thousand times.  Stand off a little till I look at you; fine young fellow, and your mother’s image.  Gadzooks, I was stupid as a block not to know you; but who would have dreamed of it.  There, I say—­hallo, Jenny!—­come here, all of you; here is Harry at last.  Are you all deaf, or asleep?”