started.
No wonder you were surprised, being hailed as cousin by an unheralded
vagabond with a stick."

"Oh, why do you stand?" cried Margaret. "Sit down, Cousin Hugh; to think
of its being really you; I have wanted to see and know you ever
since--oh, for ever so long. Hark! there comes Uncle John now. How
delighted he will be!"

"Margaret, my dear!" called Mr. Montfort from the hall. "I have just had
a letter--most surprising thing--from--hallo! what's all this? Hugh, my
dear fellow, I'm delighted to see you. Got here before your letter, eh?
How did that happen? Never mind, so long as you are here now. Well,
well, well! sit down here, and let me look at you. This is a pleasure
indeed. Your father's eyes; I should know them in a Chinaman; not that
you look like a Chinaman. How are they all at home? How's your father?
When did you leave home? Have you had anything to eat? What would you
like? Margaret, my dear, get Hugh something to eat, he's probably
starved."

Hugh laughingly disclaimed starvation, and begged to wait till their
tea-time. "I am not hungry, truly I am not," he said. "There is so much
to say, too, isn't there, Uncle John? Father is very well and hearty. I
have a pipe for you in my bag. I brought a bag with me; do you suppose
you could put me up for a few days, Uncle?"

Reassured by Mr. Montfort's earnest assurance that he should keep him
all summer, Hugh leaned back in his chair, and looked about him with
eager eyes.

"This is the library!" he said. "Uncle John, ever since I learned to
read, one of my dreams has been to see this room. Father has always told
us about it, and where his favorite books were, and where you all used
to sit when you came here to read."

He rose and, crossing the room, took a book from a shelf without a
moment's hesitation. "Here is the 'Morte d'Arthur,'" he said; "you see I
knew where to find it. And Father used to sit on top of that
stepladder."

"So he did!" cried Mr. Montfort, delighted. "I can see him now, with one
leg curled under him, eating apples and shouting about Lancelot and
Tristram."

"And you sat in the great copper coal-hod--ah! there it is!--and read
Froissart, the great folio with the colored prints. I see it, just in
the place father described."

"Uncle John," said Margaret, reproachfully, "you never told me that you
sat in the coal-scuttle. I know papa's perch, the mantel-piece, because
he could get at the little Shakespeares from there."

Mr.