"To fresh fields and pastures new!" cried Mr. Pindar, rising with a batlike wave. "Precisely! Enter attendants with torches. The minion waits without?"
"Oh!" said Mr. Homer, "not exactly, Pindar. Direxia Hawkes has—a—retired to rest; has—a—sought the sleep which—which—"
"Knits up the ravelled sleeve of care!" suggested Mr. Pindar.
"Oh, very much so!" cried Mr. Homer. "You surely remember Direxia, brother, and will no doubt agree with me that the term 'minion' cannot properly be applied to Cousin Marcia's old and faithful retainer. And—the youth who—who admitted you, is Thomas Candy, my friend and fellow trustee. Thomas is an invaluable person, Pindar; he is like a son to me, I assure you. You will, I am sure, value Thomas. I will suggest to him the advisability of bringing candles. Oh, here he is! Thomas, this is my brother Pindar, my only brother, returned after the lapse of many years to—to his native heath, if I may so express myself. Thomas Candy, my dear brother!"
"Son of Silas?" cried Mr. Pindar. "Ha! 'tis well. Stripling, thy hand! lives yet thy father, ha?"
Tommy grinned, and rumpled his hair with an elfish look eminently unfitting a trustee.
"You are the one he used to play ghost with, and scare the Weightses," he said. "I've heard of you, sir. Father isn't livin', but Mis' Tree told me about it. Glad to see you, sir!"