Many things are now raked up and talked over about him.

In early youth, he had been a bit of a scamp. He broke his indentures,
and ran away from his master, the tanner of Bryemere; he had got into
fifty bad scrapes and out again; and, just as the little world of
Golden Friars had come to the conclusion that it would be well for all
parties--except, perhaps, himself--and a happy riddance for his
afflicted mother, if he were sunk, with a gross of quart pots about
his neck, in the bottom of the lake in which the grey gables, the
elms, and the towering fells of Golden Friars are mirrored, he
suddenly returned, a reformed man at the ripe age of forty.

For twelve years he had disappeared, and no one knew what had become
of him. Then, suddenly, as I say, he reappeared at Golden Friars--a
very black and silent man, sedate and orderly. His mother was dead and
buried; but the "prodigal son" was received good-naturedly. The good
vicar, Doctor Jenner, reported to his wife:

"His hard heart has been softened, dear Dolly. I saw him dry his eyes,
poor fellow, at the sermon yesterday."

"I don't wonder, Hugh darling. I know the part--'There is joy in
Heaven.' I am sure it was--wasn't it? It was quite beautiful. I almost
cried myself."

The Vicar laughed gently, and stooped over her chair and kissed her,
and patted her cheek fondly.

"You think too well of your old man's sermons," he said. "I preach,