“Do you know, uncle,” remarked Ned, settling his bulky frame more comfortably in the easy-chair, and twirling his watch-key, “I find it more difficult every day to believe that the events of the last few months of my life have actually occurred. When I sit here in my old seat, and look at you and the cat and the furniture—everything, in fact, just the same as when I left—I cannot realise that I have been nearly two years away.”
“I understand your feelings, my dear boy,” replied Mr Shirley, taking off his spectacles, (the lower pair,) wiping them with his handkerchief putting them on again, and looking over them at his nephew, with an expression of unmitigated admiration. “I can sympathise with you, Ned, for I have gone through the same experience more than once in the course of my life. It’s a strange life, boy, a very strange life this, as you’ll come to know, if you’re spared to be as old as I am.”
Ned thought that his knowledge was already pretty extended in reference to life, and even flattered himself that he had had some stranger views of it than his uncle, but he prudently did not give expression to his thoughts; and, after a short pause, Mr Shirley resumed—
“Yes, lad, it’s a very strange life; and the strangest part of it is, that the longer we live the stranger it gets. I travelled once in Switzerland—,” (the old gentleman paused, as if to allow the statement to have its full weight on Ned’s youthful mind,) “and it’s a curious fact, that when I had been some months there, home and all connected with it became like a dream to me, and Switzerland became a reality. But after I came back to England, and had spent some time here, home again became the reality, and Switzerland appeared like a dream, so that I sometimes said to myself, ‘Can it be possible that I have been there!’ Very odd, isn’t it?”
“It is, uncle; and I have very much the same feelings now.”
“Very odd, indeed,” repeated Mr Shirley. “By the way, that reminds me that we have to talk about that farm of which I spoke to you on the day of your arrival.”
We might feel surprised that the above conversation could in any way have the remotest connexion with “that farm” of which Mr Shirley was so suddenly reminded, did we not know that the subject was, in fact, never out of his mind.
“True, uncle, I had almost forgotten about it, but you know I’ve been so much engaged during the last few days in visiting my old friends and college companions, that—”
“I know it, I know it, Ned, and I don’t want to bother you with business matters sooner than I can help, but—”
“My dear uncle, how can you for a moment suppose that I could be ‘bothered’ by—”