Not a word reached St. George—­not a syllable.  No one of the house servants would have spoiled the fun, and certainly no one of the great folks.  It was only when his visit to Moorlands was over and he had driven into town and had walked up his own front steps, that the true situation in all its glory and brilliancy dawned upon him.

The polished knobs, knocker, and the perfect level and whiteness of the marble steps first caught his eye; then the door swung open and Jemima in white apron and bandanna stood bowing to the floor, Todd straight as a ramrod in a new livery and a grin on his face that cut it in two, with Kate and Harry hidden behind them, suffocating from suppressed laughter.

“Why, you dear Jemima!  Howdy—...  Why, who the devil sent that old table back, Todd, and the hall rack and—­What!” Here he entered the dining-room.  Everything was as he remembered it in the old days.  “Harry!  Kate!—­Why—­” then he broke down and dropped into a chair, his eyes still roaming around the room taking in every object, even the loving cup, which Mr. Kennedy had made a personal point of buying back from the French secretary, who was gracious enough to part with it when he learned the story of its enforced sale—­each and every one of them—­ready to spring forward from its place to welcome him!

“So this,” he stammered out—­“is what you have kept me up at Moorlands for, is it?  You never say a word to me—­and—­Oh, you children!—­you children!  Todd, did you ever see anything like it?—­my guns—­and the loving cup—­and the clock, and—­Come here you two blessed things and let me get my arms around you!  Kiss me, Kate—­and Harry, my son—­give me your hand.  No, don’t say a word—­don’t mind me—­I’m all knocked out and—­”

Down went his face in his hands and he in a heap in the chair; then he stiffened and gave a little shiver to his elbows in the effort to keep himself from going completely to pieces, and scrambled to his feet again, one arm around Kate’s neck, his free hand in Harry’s.

Take me everywhere and show me everything.  Todd, go and find Mr. Pawson and see if Mr. Gadgem is anywhere around; they’ve had something to do with this—­” here his eyes took in Todd—­“You damned scoundrel, who the devil rigged you out in that new suit?”

“Marse Harry done sont me to de tailor.  See dem buttons?—­but dey ain’t nuthin’ to what’s on the top shelf—­you’ll bust yo’self wide open a-laughin’, Marse George, when ye sees what’s in dar—­you gotter come wid me—­please Mistis an’ Marse Harry, you come too.  Dis way—­”

Todd was full to bursting.  Had his grin been half an inch wider his ears would have dropped off.

“An’ fore ye look at dem shelves der’s annuder thing I gotter tell ye;—­an’ dat is dat the dogs—­all fo’ oh em is comin’ in the mawnin’.  Mister Floyd’s coach-man done tole me so,” and with a jerk and a whoop, completely ignoring his master’s exclamation of joy over the return of his beloved setters, the darky threw back the door of the little cubby-hole of a room where the Black Warrior and his brethren had once rested in peace, and pointed to a row of erect black bottles backed by another of recumbent ones.