FAMILY CARES

Mr. Jernshaw, who was taking the opportunity of a lull in business to

weigh out pound packets of sugar, knocked his hands together and stood

waiting for the order of the tall bronzed man who had just entered the

shop—a well-built man of about forty—who was regarding him with blue

eyes set in quizzical wrinkles.

"What, Harry!" exclaimed Mr. Jernshaw, in response to the wrinkles.

"Harry Barrett!"

"That's me," said the other, extending his hand. "The rolling stone come

home covered with moss."

Mr. Jernshaw, somewhat excited, shook hands, and led the way into the

little parlour behind the shop.

"Fifteen years," said Mr. Barrett, sinking into a chair, "and the old place

hasn't altered a bit."

"Smithson told me he had let that house in Webb Street to a Barrett," said

the grocer, regarding him, "but I never thought of you. I suppose you've

done well, then?"

Mr. Barrett nodded. "Can't grumble," he said modestly. "I've got enough to

live on. Melbourne's all right, but I thought I'd come home for the evening

of my life."

"Evening!" repeated his friend. "Forty-three," said Mr. Barrett, gravely. "I'm

getting on."

"You haven't changed much," said the grocer, passing his hand through his

spare grey whiskers. "Wait till you have a wife and seven youngsters. Why,

boots alone——"

Mr. Barrett uttered a groan intended for sympathy. "Perhaps you could

help me with the furnishing," he said, slowly. "I've never had a place of my

own before, and I don't know much about it."

"Anything I can do," said his friend. "Better not get much yet; you might

marry, and my taste mightn't be hers."