“My brother,” said she, throwing her arms round him and kissing him. He recoiled from the embrace, but I think that he attempted to return the kiss. “And now I will tell the whole story,” said Mrs. Brown. And she told it, acknowledging her fault with true contrition, and swearing that she would atone for it by life-long sisterly devotion. “And you mustard-plastered the wrong man!” said the old gentleman, almost rolling off his chair with delight. “I did,” said Mrs. Brown, sobbing; “and I think that no woman ever suffered as I suffered.” “And Jones wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?” “It was the handkerchief stopped us,” said Brown. “If it had turned out to be anybody else,” said the member of Parliament, “the results might have been most serious--not to say discreditable.” “That’s nonsense, Robert,” said Mrs. Brown, who was disposed to resent the use of so severe a word, even from the legislator cousin. “In a strange gentleman’s bedroom!” he continued. “It only shows that what I have always said is quite true. You should never go to bed in a strange house without locking your door.” Nevertheless it was a very jovial meeting, and before the evening was over Mr. Jones was happy, and had been brought to acknowledge that the mustard plaster would probably not do him any permanent injury. End of Project Gutenberg's Christmas at Thompson Hall, by Anthony Trollope