A reckless, self-willed, headstrong boy, he had broken wild and run away from home at nineteen, abruptly and without warning.

Abruptly and without warning he had returned home, one fine morning, twenty years after, and walking up the palatial steps, shabby, and grizzled, and weather-beaten, had strode straight to the majestic presence of the mistress of the house, with outstretched hand and a cool "How are you, mother ?" And Mrs.Walraven knew her son.

He had left her a fiery, handsome, bright-faced lad, and this man before her was gray and black-bearded and weather-beaten and brown, but she knew him.

She had risen with a shrill cry of joy, and held open her arms.
"I've come back, you see, mother," Mr.Carl said, easily, "like the proverbial bad shilling.

I've grown tired knocking about this big world, and now, at nine-and-thirty, with an empty purse, a light heart, a spotless conscience, and a sound digestion, I'm going to settle down and walk in the way I should go.