Miss Woodley acquiesced. But before they arrived at their own door it came into Miss Milner’s remembrance, that there was a grave sternness in the manners of her guardian when provoked, the recollection of which made her a little apprehensive for what she had done—her friend, who knew him better than she did, was more so. They both became silent as they approached the street where they lived—for Miss Woodley having once represented her fears, and having suppressed them in resignation to Miss Milner’s better judgment, would not repeat them—and Miss Milner would not confess they were now troubling her. Just, however, as the coach stopped at the door, she had the forecast and the humility to say, “We will not tell Mr. Dorriforth the child is his nephew, unless he should appear fond, and pleased with him, and then I think we may venture without any danger.” This was agreed; and when Dorriforth entered the room just before dinner, poor Harry Rushbrook was introduced as the son of a lady who frequently visited there. The deception passed—his uncle shook hands with him, and at length highly pleased with his engaging manner, and applicable replies, took him on his knee, and kissed him with affection. Miss Milner could scarce restrain the joy it gave her; but unluckily, Dorriforth said soon after to the child, “And now tell me your name.” “Harry Rushbrook,” replied he, with force and clearness of voice. Dorriforth was holding him fondly round the waist as he stood with his feet upon his knees; and at this reply he did not _throw_ him from him—but he removed his hands, which had supported him, so suddenly, that the child, to prevent falling on the floor, threw himself about his uncle’s neck. Miss Milner and Miss Woodley turned aside to conceal their tears. “I had like to have been down,” cried Harry, fearing no other danger. But his uncle took hold of each hand which had twined around him, and placed him immediately on the ground. The dinner being that instant served, he gave no greater marks of his resentment than calling for his hat, and walking instantly out of the house. Miss Milner cried for anger; yet she did not shew less kindness to the object of this vexatious circumstance: she held him in her arms while she sat at table, and repeatedly said to him, (though he had not the sense to thank her) “That she would always be his friend.”