Meanwhile Harry had told his long story; incoherently, it is true; but Doctor Palmer in his letter had explained so much, that his father only wanted to know what had befallen him since the night he had run away from school; all of which Harry told him. And then he, in his turn, gladly and proudly related to his boy all that had taken place at school. How that he was proved innocent; how Doctor Palmer praised and spoke highly of him in every way; and how delighted the whole school had been when the guilty one had been detected, and he righted.
And you may be sure Harry's heart was very glad when he heard all this—all this that he might have known two years ago. Two years ago, he could scarcely believe it. Two years is such a long while to the young.
Afterwards, they spoke of what was nearest to their hearts; the death that happened far back on that afternoon in June, far away in the little farm at Wilton by the sea. And Alan made his boy repeat over and over again all he could remember of those last days, and last words uttered by the lips that were so dear to them both, and that never were to touch theirs again. And they had for the time entirely forgotten about the message sent to the good people of the show; so that when there came a rap at the door, and Mrs Blewcome entered, Mr Campbell looked up, and said bluntly—
"Well, ma'am, who are you?"
This was too much for Mrs Blewcome. She had been sent for by "this man!" and he asked her who she was! She drew herself up, and answered with dignity:
"Mrs Blewcome! of Blewcome's Royal Menaggery!" and, catching sight of Harry, she exclaimed—
"So it's you as have taken our boy off, is it?"
"Sit down, my good woman, sit down, and I will explain my reason for sending for you."
Mrs Blewcome deposited the enormous umbrella which she invariably carried in the finest weather, upon the clean white tablecloth, and, seating herself with a bump upon a chair, clasped two very hot hands upon her lap, and waited.
"When, and where, did you find this little boy?" asked Mr Campbell.