“Who is Sunshine?” asked Dr. Lacey.

“Well, now,” said Mr. Middleton, “here you’ve lived with ’em four weeks and don’t know that I call one Tempest and t’other Sunshine, and if you’ve any wit, you’ll know which is Sunshine.”

Just then a voice was heard to exclaim, “There, I told you father was here.  I hear him now talking about Sunshine,” and Fanny rushed in, and throwing her arms around her father’s neck, kissed again and again his rough cheek, while he suddenly felt the need of his red and yellow cotton handkerchief, and muttered something about the “roads” being so infernal dusty that they made a fellow’s eyes smart!

Then turning to Julia, who still stood in the door, he said, “Come, Tempest, none of your pranks!  Come here and shake your old pap’s paw.  You needn’t be afeared of this young spark, for he knows I’m your pap, and he hain’t laughed at me neither.”  So Julia advanced and shook her father’s hand with a tolerably good grace.

“I’m come for you to go home and see the folks,” said Mr. Middleton; “so you pick up your duds—­and mind not to take a cussed bandbox—­and after dinner we’ll start for home.”

“It wants an hour of dinner time,” said Julia, “and as we are not hungry, we can start in a few moments, if you like.”

“Fury-ation,” said Mr. Middleton, “I wonder if we can.  Well, start on then afoot, if you’re in such a hurry.  I shan’t budge an inch till I’ve had my dinner; besides, I want to see Mr. Wilmot.”

Julia saw that she must submit to the mortification of seeing her father at Mrs. Crane’s dinner table, and with a beating heart she heard the bell summon them to the dining room.  Mrs. Carrington did not appear—­her nerves had received too great a shock—­and for that Julia was thankful.  Dr. Lacey sat by her father and paid him every possible attention.

“Will you take soup, Mr. Middleton?” asked Mrs. Crane.

“What kind of soup?  Beef soup, or mud turkle?”

“It is vermicelli,” said Mrs. Crane, hardly able to keep her face straight.

“Vermifuge—­vermifuge,” repeated Mr. Middleton.  “That’s almighty queer stuff to make soup on.  No.  I’m ’bleeged to you; I ain’t in need of that ar medicine.”

Julia reddened, while Fanny burst into a laugh and said, “Father isn’t much used to French soups, I think.”

“Use your napkin, father,” softly whispered Julia.

“What shall I use that for?” said he.  “My trousers are all tobacco spit now, and grease won’t hurt ’em any now.  Halloo!  Here waiter, bring me a decent fork, for Lord knows I can’t eat with this here shovel and if I take my fingers Tempest’ll raise a row de dow.”

The servant looked at his mistress, who said, “Samuel, bring Mr. Middleton a steel fork.”

When the dessert was brought in Mr. Middleton again exclaimed, as he took his plate of pudding, “Now what can this be?”

“It is tapioca pudding,” said Mrs. Crane.