Well, as you will imagine, kind reader, that tea was not the last he had with us.  He fell into our ways with delightful readiness; indeed, he was rather “old-fashioned,” as I call it.  He would pour out my second cup of tea, if Tabitha happened to be out of the room, as nicely as she herself could have done, carefully washing the tea-leaves out of the cup first; and he would tell Tabitha if a piece of braid were hanging down from her skirt, when they were going bicycling together.  We got quite used to being kept in order by him in all kinds of little ways, and he grew to be so associated with the idea of Tabitha in my mind, that my affection for her became in a sort of way an affection for them both.  The only thing was that, as the months went on, I began to wonder why more did not come of it.  Sometimes I fancied I noted a reflection of my own perplexed doubts crossing Tabitha’s sweet, expressive face, and I questioned within myself whether I ought (like the fathers in books) to ask the young man about his “intentions,” and imply that he could not expect an unlimited supply of my cups of tea, unless they were made clear:  but I think that my own delicacy as well as common sense prevented my taking such a course, and things were still in statu quo, when one morning, as I was peacefully mending Tabitha’s gloves (she will go out with holes in them) a ring at the front door bell was followed by the advance of someone in rustling silk garments up the stairs:  the drawing-room door was opened, and there appeared a young-looking, fair lady, who advanced brightly to greet me, with a finished society manner, and an expression in her kind, blue eyes of unmixed pleasure at the meeting.  The name murmured at the door had not reached my ears, and I was still wondering which of my child-friends had developed into this charming and fashionable young lady, when Tabitha burst into the room, flung her arms round the new-comer’s neck, and exclaimed, “You darling, who would have expected you to turn up so charmingly, just when we didn’t expect you!”

The light slowly dawned on my amazed intelligence.  Could this—­this be the formidable, grey-haired woman, with whom I had been expecting, and somewhat dreading, sooner or later, an encounter?  Could this be the spectacled Committee-woman—­the rampant bicyclist—­the corrupter of the youth of Tabitha?  I looked at her immaculate dress, and pretty, neat hair; I noted the winning expression of her eyes, and her sweetness of manner; and instead of entrenching myself in the firm, though unspoken hostility, which I had secretly cherished towards the idea of Aunt Rennie, I felt myself yielding to the charm of a personality, whose richness and sweetness were to me like a new experience of life.