he kissed her dry lips. The near view
of the papers offended some new feeling within him. He was strangely
tempted to pluck them out.

There was a great change to be noted in the appearance of the only
Henry. It was four years since he had left Wheelton, almost six since he
went away to Stratford, and Laysford especially stamps its character on
its residents.

"Bless me, 'Enry, but you're growing all to legs, like a young colt,"
his father remarked, as he seated himself and took a smiling survey of
his son, who was given the honour of the arm-chair; a fact that marked
another stage in his upward career. "All to legs, my boy!"

"But there's lots of time to fill out yet, dad. I weigh ten stone
eleven."

"Mostly bones, eh?"

"But I feel all right."

"You look it, my lad; and between you an' I, I'd rather have your bones
than my beef!"

"I hope you have always remembered to wear flannel next your skin,
Henry?" his mother ventured to ask, in the hilarious moment which her
husband was enjoying as the meed of his merry thought.

"Oh, I'm all right, mother! Don't worry about me. Wear flannel next the
skin, drink cod-liver oil like water, and am never without a
chest-protector on the hottest day."

His sisters laughed, but doubted their ears. Henry had never been
jocular. Evidently the neat cut of his summer suit, the elegant tie,
were not the only things Laysford had endowed him with.

"Your mother always was coddling you up as a boy. She forgets that
you're a man now. Why, your moustache is big enough for a Frenchie.
Don't it get into the tea? I never could abide a moustache. It's one of
they furrin ideas."

"My moustache is rather admired, dad," said Henry brightly, glancing
slily at his sisters.

"Hark at the lad.... By whom?"

"Ladies ... perhaps!"

Oh, Henry, you might have broken it more gently! Edward John smiled and
called him "a young dog"; his mother's face clouded for a moment, and
brightened; the girls understood--at least Dora, who was nineteen, and
Kit, who was two years younger, understood--and laughed. Milly was only
a maiden of bashful fifteen.

"It's simply wonnerful, 'Enry, how you've smartened up since you were
'ome two years ago. Your second two years have done more for you than
the first," said Edward John, buttering his bread at the tea-table.

"Glad you think so, dad. But I say, mother, it's funny to be buttering
my own bread again; I haven't buttered any since I was at home last."