Every one in the house was delighted, when one morning he found it absolutely necessary to go into the town.  Valentine drove him in, and all his children rejoiced, it seemed like an acknowledgment that they were really better.

Johnnie ate a large breakfast and called to Swan soon after to bring him up the first ripe bunch of grapes—­he had himself propped up to eat them and to look out of the window at the garden.

“What a jolly bunch!” he exclaimed when Swan appeared with it.

“Ay, sir, I only wish Fergus could see it!  The Marchioness sent yesterday to inquire,—­sent the little young ladies.  I haven’t seen such a turn-out in our lane since last election time.  Mr. Smithers said they were a sight to be seen, dressed up so handsome.  ‘Now then,’ says he, ’you see the great need and use of our noble aristocracy.  Markis is a credit to it, laying out as he does in the town he is connected with.  Yes, they were a sight,’ Mr. Smithers was the ‘pink’ Wigfield draper.  ‘Ay, ay,’ says I, ‘who should go fine if not the peahen’s daughters?’”

“Everybody seems to have sent to inquire,” said Johnnie ungraciously.  “I hate to hear their wheels.  I always think it is the doctor’s carriage.”

“Old Lady Fairbairn came too,” proceeded Swan, “and Miss Justina.  The old lady has only that one daughter left single, as I hear; she has got all the others married.”

Johnnie made a grimace, and pleased himself with remembering how Valentine, in telling him of that call, had irreverently said, “Old Mother Fairbairn ought to be called the Judicious Hooker.”

Johnnie was sincerely sorry these acquaintances had returned; so was Emily.  Had she not given John a positive denial to his suit?  Who could be surprised now if he turned to her rival?

It was afternoon when John Mortimer came in.  The house was very quiet, and a little flag hung out of Nancy’s window, showing that the child was asleep.  He therefore approached quietly, entered the library, and feeling very tired and disquieted, sat down among his books.  He took one down, and did not know how long he might have been trying to occupy himself with it, when he heard the rustle of a silk dress, and Dorothea stood in the open window.  She looked just a little hurried and shy.  “Oh, Mr. Mortimer,” she began, “Emily sent her love to you, and——­”

“Emily sent her love to me?” he exclaimed almost involuntarily, “sent her love? are you sure?”

Dorothea, thus checked in her message, drew back and blushed—­had she made herself very ridiculous? would Emily be displeased?  His eyes seemed to entreat her for an answer.  She faltered, not without exceeding surprise, at the state of things thus betrayed, and at his indifference to her observation.  “I suppose she did.  I thought all this family sent love to one another.”  Thus while she hesitated, and he seemed still to wait for her further recollection, she noticed the strange elation of hope and joy that illumined his face.