It was Mr. Peggotty. An old man now, but in a ruddy, hearty, strong old age. When our first emotion was over, and he sat before the fire with the children on his knees, and the blaze shining on his face, he looked, to me, as vigorous and robust, withal as handsome, an old man, as ever I had seen.

“Mas’r Davy,” said he. And the old name in the old tone fell so naturally on my ear! “Mas’r Davy, ’tis a joyful hour as I see you, once more, ’long with your own trew wife!”

“A joyful hour indeed, old friend!” cried I.