"No. Not a bit more," said Meg. "But I wouldn't let him, father. Where would have been the use?" "Richard, my boy!" cried Trotty. "You was turned up Trumps originally, and Trumps you must be until you die! But you were crying by the fire to-night, my pet, when I came home. Why did you cry by the fire?" "I was thinking of the years we've passed together, father. Only that. And thinking you might miss me, and be lonely." Trotty was backing off to that extraordinary chair again, when the child, who had been awakened by the noise, came running in, half dressed. "Why, here she is!" cried Trotty catching her up. "Here's little Lilian! Ha, ha, ha! Here we are and here we go! O, here we are and here we go again! And here we are and here we go! And Uncle Will, too!" Stopping in his trot to greet him heartily. "O, Uncle Will, the vision that I've had to-night, through lodging you! O, Uncle Will, the obligations that you've laid me under by your coming, my good friend!" Before Will Fern could make the least reply, a band of music burst into the room, attended by a flock of neighbors, screaming: "A Happy New Year, Meg!" "A Happy Wedding!" "Many of 'em!" and other fragmentary good wishes of that sort. The Drum (who was a private friend of Trotty's) then stepped forward and said: "Trotty Veck, my boy! It's got about that your daughter is going to be married to-morrow. There an't a soul that knows you that don't wish you well, or that knows her and don't wish her well. Or that knows you both and don't wish you both all the happiness the New Year can bring. And here we are, to play it in accordingly." "What a happiness it is, I'm sure," said Trotty, "to be so esteemed. How kind and neighborly you are! It's all along of my dear daughter. She deserves it." At this moment a combination of prodigious sounds was heard outside, and a good-humored, comely woman of some fifty years of age, or thereabouts, came running in, closely followed by the marrow-bones and cleavers and the bells--not _the_ Bells, but a portable collection on a frame. Trotty said: "It's Mrs. Chickenstalker!" And sat down and beat his knees again. "Married, and not tell me, Meg!" cried the good woman. "Never! I couldn't rest on the last night of the Old Year without coming to wish you joy. I couldn't have done it, Meg. Not if I had been bed-ridden. So here I am." "Mrs. Tugby," said Trotty, who had been going round and round her in an ecstasy--"I _should_ say Chickenstalker--bless your heart and soul! A happy New Year, and many of 'em! Mrs. Tugby," said Trotty, when he had saluted her--"I _should_ say Chickenstalker--this is William Fern and Lilian." The worthy dame, to his surprise, turned very pale and very red. "Not Lilian Fern, whose mother died in Dorsetshire?" said she.