“Poor Miss Matey!” said I. “Nay, now, I don’t know any thing more than that he offered and was refused. Miss Matey might not like him—and Miss Jenkyns might never have said a word—it is only a guess of mine.” “Has she never seen him since?” I inquired. “No, I think not. You see, Woodley, Cousin Thomas’s house, lies half-way between Cranford and Misselton; and I know he made Misselton his market-town very soon after he had offered to Miss Matey; and I don’t think he has been into Cranford above once or twice since—once, when I was walking with Miss Matey in High-street; and suddenly she darted from me, and went up Shire-lane. A few minutes after I was startled by meeting Cousin Thomas.” “How old is he?” I asked, after a pause of castle-building. “He must be about seventy, I think, my dear,” said Miss Pole, blowing up my castle, as if by gunpowder, into small fragments. Very soon after—at least during my long visit to Miss Matilda—I had the opportunity of seeing Mr. Holbrook; seeing, too, his first encounter with his former love, after thirty or forty years’ separation. I was helping to decide whether any of the new assortment of colored silks which they had just received at the shop, would help to match a gray and black mousseline-de-laine that wanted a new breadth, when a tall, thin, Don Quixote-looking old man came into the shop for some woolen gloves. I had never seen the person (who was rather striking) before, and I watched him rather attentively, while Miss Matey listened to the shopman. The stranger wore a blue coat with brass buttons, drab breeches, and gaiters, and drummed with his fingers on the counter until he was attended to. When he answered the shop-boy’s question, “What can I have the pleasure of showing you to-day, sir?” I saw Miss Matilda start, and then suddenly sit down; and instantly I guessed who it was. She had made some inquiry which had to be carried round to the other shopman. “Miss Jenkyns wants the black sarcenet two-and-twopence the yard;” and Mr. Holbrook had caught the name, and was across the shop in two strides. “Matey—Miss Matilda—Miss Jenkyns! God bless my soul! I should not have known you. How are you? how are you?” He kept shaking her hand in a way which proved the warmth of his friendship; but he repeated so often, as if to himself, “I should not have known you!” that any sentimental romance which I might be inclined to build, was quite done away with by his manner.