“We’ll see, one of these days, perhaps,” was Manly’s quiet remark; and the friends parted company.

Ten years often make a great difference in a man’s condition, habits, and feelings.  Ten years passed away, and Mr. Pelby was a husband, and the father of three interesting children,—­indulged, of course, and “pretty considerably” spoiled, yet interesting withal, and, in the eyes of their father, not to be compared for beauty, good manners, etc. with any other children inhabiting the same city.  William, the oldest boy, had not quite completed his sixth year.  Emma, a rosy-cheeked, chubby little thing, when asked her age, could say—­

“Four years old last June.”

And Henry was just the age that Tommy Little was when he so terribly annoyed Mr. Pelby.  Now, as to Henry’s accomplishments, they were many and various.  He could be a good boy when he felt in a pleasant humour, and could storm, and fret, and pout in a way so well understood by all parents, that it would be a work of supererogation to describe it here.  But strange mutation of disposition!—­Mr. Pelby could bear these fits of perverseness with a philosophy that would have astonished even himself, could he have for a moment realized his former state of mind.  When Henry became ill-tempered from any cause, he had, from loving him, learned that to get into an ill-humour also would be only adding fuel to flame; and so, on such occasions, he sought affectionately to calm and soothe his ruffled feelings.  If Henry, or Emma, or William, from any exuberance of happy feelings, were noisy or boisterous, he did not think it right to check them suddenly, because he was a little annoyed.  He tried, rather, to feel glad with them—­to partake of their joy.  In short, Mr. Pelby had grown into a domestic philosopher.  A wife and two or three children do wonders sometimes!

Now it so happened about this time, that Mr. and Mrs. Manly and Mr. and Mrs. Little were spending an evening with Mr. and Mrs. Pelby.  William and Emma had their suppers prepared for them in the kitchen, and then, as usual, were put to bed; but “dear little Henry” was so interesting to his parents, and they naturally thought must be so interesting to their company, that he was allowed to sit up and come to the tea-table.  As Mrs. Pelby had no dining-room, the back parlour was used for this purpose, and so all the progressive arrangements of the tea-table were visible.

“Oh, dinne weddy! dinne weddy!” cried little Henry, sliding down from the lap of Mrs. Little—­whose collar he had been rumpling so that it was hardly fit to be seen—­as soon as he saw the cloth laid; and, running for a chair, he was soon perched up in it, calling lustily for “meat.”

“Oh, no, no, Henry! dinner not ready yet!” said Mrs. Pelby, starting forward, and endeavouring to remove the child from his seat; but Henry screamed and resisted.

“Oh, let him sit, mother!” interfered Mr. Pelby.  “The little dear don’t understand waiting as we do.”