At the earliest time when a ship might be expected to follow the one by which the letter came, I began to call every evening, ere starting for Hampstead, at the inn where the Bristol coaches arrived.  Many a long wait I had in vain when a coach happened to be late.  I grew so accustomed to the disappointment of seeing no familiar figure among the passengers alighting, that sometimes I felt as if Phil’s letter were a delusion and he never would appear.

But one evening as I stared as usual with the crowd in the coach yard, and had watched three portly strangers already emerge from the open door to the steps, and was prepared for the accustomed sinking of my heart, what did that heart do but give a great bound so as almost to choke me!  There he was in the doorway, the same old Phil, with the same kindly face.  I rushed forward.  Before I reached him, he had turned around toward the inside of the coach, as if he would help some one out after him.  “Some decrepit fellow traveller,” thought I, and looked up indifferently to see what sort of person it might be:  and there, as I live, stepping out from the coach, and taking his offered hand, was Fanny!

I was at her other side before either of them knew it, holding up my hand likewise.  They glanced at me in the same instant; and Phil’s glad smile came as the accompaniment to Fanny’s joyous little cry.  I had an arm around each in a moment; and we created some proper indignation for a short space by blocking up the way from the stage-coach.

“Come!” I cried.  “We’ll take a hackney-coach!  How happy mother will be!—­But no, you must be hungry.  Will you eat here first?—­a cup of coffee? a glass of wine?”

But they insisted upon waiting till we got to Hampstead; and, scarce knowing what I was about, yet accomplishing wonders in my excitement, I had a coach ready, and their trunks and bags transferred, and all of us in the coach, before I stopped to breathe.  And before I could breathe twice, it seemed, we were rolling over the stones Northward.

“Sure it’s a dream!” said I.  “To think of it!  Fanny in London!”

“My father would have it so,” said she, demurely.

“Ay,” added Phil, “and she’s forbidden to go back to New York till she takes you with her.  ’Faith, man, am I not a prophet?”

“You’re more than a prophet; you’re a providence,” I cried. “’Tis your doing!”

“Nonsense.  ’Tis Mr. Faringfield’s.  And that implacable man, not content with forcing an uncongenial marriage upon this helpless damsel, requires that you immediately resign your high post in the king’s service, and live upon the pittance he settles upon you as his daughter’s husband.”

“’Tis too generous.  I can’t accept.”

“You must, Bert,” put in Fanny, “or else you can’t have me.  ’Tis one of papa’s conditions.”

“But,” Phil went on, “in order that this unhappy child may become used to the horrible idea of this marriage by degrees, she is to live with your mother a few months while I carry you off on a trip for my benefit and pleasure:  and that’s one of my conditions:  for it wouldn’t do for you to go travelling about the country after you were married, leaving your wife at home, and Fanny abominates travelling.  But as soon as you and I have seen a very little of this part of the world, you’re to be married and live happy ever after.”