“Alas, poor gypsy, thou hast lost thy silver penny this time.  The letter is indeed from Cousin Harry, and that of itself is one of life’s wonders.  But it is addressed with all propriety to his ‘venerable uncle.’  He arrived from Europe a month since, and being now on a tour for health and pleasure, proposes to make a hasty call on his relatives and visit the old homestead.  He brings his bride with him.  Now, Kate, be stirring; they will be here to-night, and we must look our prettiest.”

“The hateful, prosy man!  I’ll not do anything to make his visit agreeable,” said I, pettishly.

“Why, Kate, what are you conjuring up in your foolish little noddle?”

“Oh, I supposed an eclaircissement would come round somehow, and we should finish the romance in style.”

“Why, Kate, do you really wish to get rid of me?”

“No, indeed!  I wouldn’t have you accept his old withered heart for the world.  But I wanted you to have the triumph of rejecting it.  ’Indeed, my dear cousin,’—­thus you should have said,—­’I shall always be interested in you as a kinsman, but I can never love you.’”

“Kate is crazed!” she exclaimed, in a voice of despair.  “Why, dear child, there is not a shadow of foundation for this nonsense.  I am heartily glad at the thought of seeing my cousin once more, and all the gladder that he brings a wife with him.  Will you read the letter?”

I read it twice, and then asked,—­“Where does he mention his wife?”

“Why, there,—­don’t you see?  ’I shall bring with me a young lady, whom, though a stranger and a foreigner, I trust you will be pleased to welcome.’  Isn’t that plain?”

The inference seemed sufficiently natural; but the slight uncertainty was the basis of many entertaining dreams through the day.  I resolved to hold fast my faith in romance till the last moment.  Towards evening, when the parlors and guest-chambers had received the last touches, when the silver had been polished, the sponge-cake and tarts baked, and our own toilette made,—­when, in short, nothing remained to be done, my excitement and impatience rose to the highest pitch.  I ran repeatedly down the avenue, and finally mounted with a pocket-telescope to the top of the house for a more extensive survey.

“See you aught, Sister Annie?” called my aunt from below.

“Nothing yet, good Fatima!—­spin out thy prayers a little longer.  Stay! a cloud of dust, a horseman!—­no doubt an outrider hastening on to announce his approach.  Ah! he passes, the stupid clown!  Another!  Nay, that was only a Derby wagon; the stars forbid that our deliverer should come in a Derby!  But now, hush! there’s a bona fide barouche, two black horses, black driver and all.  Almost at the turn!  O gentle Ethiopian, tarry! this is the castle!  Go, then, false man!  Fatima, thy last hope is past!  No, they stop! the gentleman looks out! he waves his hand this way!  Aunt Linny, ’tis he! the carriage is coming up the avenue!” So saying, I threw down the telescope and flew to her room.