Marcus, to whom the probable character of his reception had been a distressing subject of conjecture, was delighted at this frank, affectionate greeting, and stooped and imprinted an uncle’s kiss on the young girl’s brow.  It was a pleasant way out of an embarrassment.

The conflicting emotions of the hour were too much for Pet; and she tottered to Mrs. Crull’s arms, and wept for a few moments.

“You are her uncle, Mr. Wilkeson,” said Mrs. Crull, extending her red right hand, while, with her left, she smoothed Pet’s thick brown hair, “but I am her mother.”  Mrs. Crull seized upon this early opportunity to give notice that her rights as adopted parent were not to be abridged.

“And happy she is in having such a mother, my dear Mrs. Crull,” said Marcus.

A quick ring, as of a familiar visitor, was heard at the door.  The servant ushered in Bog.  He was much changed since his last presentation to the reader.  Six months of worldly polish, of private tutoring, and of a strong desire to appear well in the eyes of one he loved, had turned the clumsy boy into the quiet but stylish young gentleman.  He had given up the bill-posting business, not because he was sick of it, or ashamed of it, but because old Van Quintem loved his adopted son so well, that he could not spare him from his side.  Bog passed the greater portion of every day with him, rambling through the streets, or riding to the suburbs in the old family carriage, or reading the dear old books to him.  Bog read well now, and had learned to love those repositories of wit and wisdom with almost as keen a relish as the venerable white-headed listener.  This was another bond of affection between the old gentleman and himself.

At Bog’s entrance.  Pet looked up, and showed the sparkling tears in her eyes.  A deep shade of anxiety passed over the young man’s face, and he looked around for an explanation.

The prompt Overtop was ready to give it; and, in a few moments, Bog was enlightened with the great discovery.

“And Pet has been crying a little because she is so happy—­that’s all,” added Mrs. Crull.  “Sit down here, Bog.”

Mrs. Crull made room for him on the other end of the sofa where she was sitting—­her left hand still smoothing the soft brown hair of her adopted child.

Bog took the seat, and smiled across the good lady’s broad figure to Pet, who smiled back at him again.

This expressive exchange of glances was not lost on Marcus.  He instantly saw, what he had not divined before, that the devotion, the self-sacrifice, the constant, unswerving love of the boy, had at last sounded its echo in the bosom of the maiden.  As he swiftly contrasted the manly, athletic figure of the young man, with the delicate beauty of his niece, he thought how well they were adapted to each other; and wondered that he could ever have been so blind and conceited as to suppose that a nervous old bachelor like himself could win the heart of that fresh and youthful image of loveliness.  And how thankful he then was that he had never, by a single word, hinted at the mad love which he once felt for her.