“My wife and daughter, Sir,” said the carpenter, introducing them to his guest.

Mrs. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation.  Winifred’s reception was kind, but more distant, and after the slight ceremonial she resumed her occupation.

“This gentleman brings us tidings of an old friend, my dear,” said the carpenter.

“Ay, indeed!  And who may that be?” inquired his wife.

“One whom you may perhaps have forgotten,” replied the stranger, “but who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at those of your excellent husband.”

At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred’s cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand.

“I have a token to deliver to you,” continued the stranger, addressing her.

“To me?” gasped Winifred.

“This locket,” he said, taking a little ornament attached to a black ribband from his breast, and giving it her,—­“do you remember it?”

“I do—­I do!” cried Winifred.

“What’s all this?” exclaimed Wood in amazement.

“Do you not know me, father?” said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand.  “Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?”

“God bless me!” ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, “can—­can it be?”

“Surely,” screamed Mrs. Wood, joining the group, “it isn’t Thames Darrell come to life again?”

“It is—­it is!” cried Winifred, rushing towards him, and flinging her arms round his neck,—­“it is my dear—­dear brother!”

“Well, this is what I never expected to see,” said the carpenter, wiping his eyes; “I hope I’m not dreaming!  Thames, my dear boy, as soon as Winny has done with you, let me embrace you.”

“My turn comes before yours, Sir,” interposed his better half.  “Come to my arms, Thames!  Oh! dear!  Oh! dear!”

To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—­to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one’s imagination.  Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—­their hearts were too full.