THAT same evening sat over their tea, in Norfolk Street, Strand, another couple, who were also father and son; but, in this pair, the Wardlaws were reversed.

Michael Penfold was a reverend, gentle creature, with white hair, blue eyes and great timidity; why, if a stranger put to him a question he used to look all round the room before he ventured to answer.
Robert, his son, was a young man with a large brown eye, a mellow voice, square shoulders and a prompt and vigorous manner.Cricketer.

Scholar.
Parson.
They were talking hopefully together over a living Robert was going to buy.

It was near Oxford, he said, and would not prevent his continuing to take pupils.

"But, father," said he, "it will be a place to take my wife to if I ever have one; and, meantime, I hope you will run down now and then, Saturday to Monday." "That I will, Robert.