made him hold his tongue after all. 

 

 CHAPTER IV. THE NEW HOME. 

THE NEW HOME.

 Harry had hoped that his companion would go his own way when they got to London; but it was "his funeral," as Mr. Lowndes kept saying, and he seemed determined to conduct it to the end. Euston was crowded, where Lowndes behaved like a man in his element, dealing abuse and largesse with equal energy and freedom, and getting Harry and all his boxes off in the first cab which left the station. But he himself was at Harry's side; and there he sat until the cab stopped, half-an-hour later, beneath a many-windowed red-brick pile thrown up in the angle of two back streets. 

 A porter in uniform ran up to help with the luggage, and, as Harry jumped out, a voice with a glad sob in it hailed him from a first-floor window. He waved his hat, and, with a pang, saw a white head vanishing: it had not been white when he went away. Next moment he was flying up the stone stairs three at a time; and on the first landing, at an open door, there was the sweet face, all aged and lined and lighted with sorrow and shame and love; there were the softest arms in all the world, spread wide to catch and clasp him to the warmest heart. 

 It was a long time afterwards, in a room which made the old furniture look very big, the old pictures very sad, that Mr. Lowndes was remembered for the first time. They looked into the narrow passage: the boxes blocked it, but he was not there; they called, but there was no answer. 

 "Have we no servant, mother?" 

 "We have no room for one. The porter's wife comes up and helps me." 

 "I can help you! Many a meal have I cooked in Africa." 

 "My boy, what a home-coming!" 

 It was the first word about that, and with it came the first catch in Harry's mother's voice. 

 "No, mother, thank God I am back to take care of you; and oh! I am so thankful we are to be alone to-night." 

 "But I am sorry he did not come in." 

 "He was quite right not to." 

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