ry, _very, very_ glad, sir," cried Mrs Champernowne, "and, poor
things, they are to be pitied, after all."

She backed smilingly out of the room, and Uncle Paul held the big blue
letter, which was doubly sealed with red wax, edgewise at his nephew, as
if he were going to make a sword-cut at him.

"Now, look here, Rodney," he said; "it has been dawning upon me for a
long time past that I have indulged and spoiled you, with the result
that you are growing into a most impertinent young rascal. Have the
goodness for the future, sir, to allow me to speak for myself. When I
require your conversational assistance, I will ask you for it."

"Yes, uncle, and--"

"Well, sir, what?"

"Aren't you going to open that big letter, uncle? I want to know what's
the news."

"What is it to you, sir?" cried Uncle Paul, who had been opening a very
keen-looking, peculiarly-shaped, ivory-handled knife. "Have the
goodness to let my business be my business. I have a very great mind to
put this letter,"--and as he spoke he carefully cut round the
seals--"and the other missives away in my writing-case until I am
alone--" Here Uncle Paul unfolded a letter upon the top of which was
stamped the Royal Arms, and smoothed it out upon the tablecloth--"and
read it in peace, without being pestered by an impertinent boy. Bless
my heart! Why, Pickle, my boy! Hark here! It's a letter from the
Government. Jump up and shout, you young dog! Hang Bony and all his
works! It's all right at last."

"Why, what is it?" cried the boy excitedly, as his uncle went on eagerly
reading the bold round hand that formed the formal contents.

"Hark here! `His Majesty's advisers see their way to recommend that the
long-deferred grant for the sea-going natural history expedition to the
West Coast of Africa to be carried out by Dr Robson at his earliest
convenience be made, and that the grant to the full amount will be paid
in to Dr Robson's bank as soon as formal application has been
received.' There, sir, what do you think of that? At last! At last!
Pickle, my boy, they say that everything comes at last to the man who
waits, and here it is."

"Oh, Uncle Paul!" cried the boy, with sparkling eyes. "I am so glad--so
glad!" And as he spoke he dashed at the reader, to catch him tightly by
the two sides of the collar of his coat.

"Mind my clean cravat, Pickle."

"Bother your clean cravat, uncle!" shouted the boy. "Look here, sir;
you always promised me