At the last stage,—­what is its name?  I have forgotten in seven-and-thirty years,—­there is an inn with a little green and trees before it; and by the trees there is an open carriage.  It is our carriage.  Yes, there are Prince and Blucher, the horses; and my parents in the carriage.  Oh! how I had been counting the days until this one came!  Oh! how happy had I been to see them yesterday!  But there was that fourpence.  All the journey down the toast had choked me, and the coffee poisoned me.

I was in such a state of remorse about the fourpence, that I forgot the maternal joy and caresses, the tender paternal voice.  I pull out the twenty-four shillings and eightpence with a trembling hand.

“Here’s your money,” I gasp out, “which Mr. P——­ owes you, all but fourpence.  I owed three-and-sixpence to Hawker out of my money for a pencil-case, and I had none left, and I took fourpence of yours, and had some coffee at a shop.”

I suppose I must have been choking whilst uttering this confession.

“My dear boy,” says the governor, “why didn’t you go and breakfast at the hotel?”

“He must be starved,” says my mother.

I had confessed; I had been a prodigal; I had been taken back to my parents’ arms again.  It was not a very great crime as yet, or a very long career of prodigality; but don’t we know that a boy who takes a pin which is not his own, will take a thousand pounds when occasion serves, bring his parents’ gray heads with sorrow to the grave, and carry his own to the gallows?  Witness the career of Dick Idle, upon whom our friend Mr. Sala has been discoursing.  Dick only began by playing pitch-and-toss on a tombstone:  playing fair, for what we know:  and even for that sin he was promptly caned by the beadle.  The bamboo was ineffectual to cane that reprobate’s bad courses out of him.  From pitch-and-toss he proceeded to manslaughter if necessary:  to highway robbery; to Tyburn and the rope there.  Ah! heaven be thanked, my parents’ heads are still above the grass, and mine still out of the noose.

As I look up from my desk, I see Tunbridge Wells Common and the rocks, the strange familiar place which I remember forty years ago.  Boys saunter over the green with stumps and cricket-bats.  Other boys gallop by on the riding-master’s hacks.  I protest it is Cramp, Riding master, as it used to be in the reign of George IV., and that Centaur Cramp must be at least a hundred years old.  Yonder comes a footman with a bundle of novels from the library.  Are they as good as our novels?  Oh! how delightful they were!  Shades of Valancour, awful ghost of Manfroni, how I shudder at your appearance!  Sweet image of Thaddeus of Warsaw, how often has this almost infantile hand tried to depict you in a Polish cap and richly embroidered tights!  And as for Corinthian Tom in light blue pantaloons and Hessians, and Jerry Hawthorn from the country, can all the fashion, can all the splendor of real life which these eyes have subsequently beheld, can all the wit I have heard or read in later times, compare with your fashion, with your brilliancy, with your delightful grace, and sparkling vivacious rattle?