"Angus Carson, at your service;" and the young man clicked his heels and bowed.
"The son of my old friend, Alfred Carson?" pursued the Rector, who was recovering his self-control somewhat.
"Yes. Are you Mr. Brock? Are you my father's friend? Yes?"
"I am," said the other, in a voice of emotion. "Ah! no wonder I felt queer when I saw your face. It was as if the dead were come to life."
"I am supposed to be very like my father," returned Carson, easily. "I don't wonder you were startled. My dear father often spoke to me of your devotion to him."
"Yes, yes; poor Alfred!" The Rector seated himself on a flat tombstone and fought down his natural feelings. "I wish I had known you were here, Angus; your great resemblance to your father has given me a shock. I feel ill--I--I feel very ill."
"Shall I go to the rectory and fetch you some brandy?" said Mallow, who was sorry for the old man.
"If--if you would be so kind," muttered Mr. Brock, burying his face in his handkerchief. "Poor Alfred!"--and his emotion again overcame him. Carson stood by and looked sympathetically on at this proof of a long-remembered friendship; but he made no remark, until Laurence returned from his errand.
"Thank you, Mr. Mallow; you are most kind," said Brock, gratefully, as he swallowed the brandy.
"Believe me, I am sorry my sudden appearance should have so alarmed you," said Carson, politely. "Did you know that I was coming to this place? No?"