“With this he drove on, and spoke no more, and poor Melchior stared sadly out of the window.  As he was gazing at the crowd, he suddenly saw the dog-cart, in which were his brother and his wretched companions.  Oh, how old and worn he looked! and how ragged his clothes were!  The men seemed to be trying to persuade him to do something that he did not like, and they began to quarrel; but in the midst of the dispute he turned his head and caught sight of the old coach; and Melchior seeing this, waved his hands, and beckoned with all his might.  The brother seemed doubtful; but Melchior waved harder, and (was it fancy?) Time seemed to go slower.  The brother made up his mind; he turned and jumped from the dog-cart as he had jumped from the old coach long ago, and ducking in and out among the horses and carriages, ran for his life.  The men came after him; but he ran like the wind—­pant, pant, nearer, nearer; at last the coach was reached, and Melchior seized the prodigal by his rags and dragged him in.

“‘Oh, thank GOD, I have got you safe, my brother!’

“But what a brother! with wasted body and sunken eyes; with the old curly hair turned to matted locks, that clung faster to his face than the rags did to his trembling limbs; what a sight for the opera-glasses of the crowd!  What a subject for the tongues that were ever wagging, and complimenting, and backbiting, and lying, all in a breath, and without sense or scruple!  What a sight and a subject for the fine friends, for whose good opinion Melchior had been so anxious?  Do you think he was as anxious now?  Do you think he was troubled by what they either saw or said; or was ashamed of the wretched prodigal lying among the cushions?  I think not.  I think that for the most foolish of us there are moments in life (of real joy or real sorrow) when we judge things by a higher standard, and care vastly little for what ‘people say’.  The only shame that Melchior felt was that his brother should have fared so hardly in the trials and temptations of the world outside, while he had sat at ease among the cushions of the old coach, that had been the home of both alike.  Thank GOD, it was the home of both now!  And poor Hop-o’-my-Thumb was on the front seat at last, with Melchior kneeling at his feet, and fondly stroking the head that rested against him.

“‘Has powder come into fashion, brother?’ he said.  ’Your hair is streaked with white.’

“‘If it has,’ said the other, laughing, ’your barber is better than mine, Melchior, for your head is as white as snow.’

“’Is it possible? are we so old? has Time gone so very fast?  But what are you staring at through the window?  I shall be jealous of that crowd, brother.’

“‘I am not looking at the crowd,’ said the prodigal in a low voice; ‘but I see—­’

“‘You see what?’ said Melchior.

“‘A figure in a cloak, gliding in and out—­’

“Melchior sprang up in horror.  ‘No! no!’ he cried, hoarsely.  ’No! surely no!’