“Thank you, dear mother,” said Rita, in return for the astonished kiss which poor Mrs. Joscelyn had bestowed. She sat down by her without any invitation, and took one of her hands and caressed it between her own. “I never had any mother,” she said; “I do not know what it means; nor did I ever want one of my own, for papa has been everything to me. But it is sweet to borrow Harry’s mother, and have her for mine, too; not borrow,” she added, kissing Mrs. Joscelyn’s hand, “you are mine because you are his, is it not so? Harry, do not look so like a bear, but come and kiss me, too.” “Rita, your father will never forgive me,” cried Harry, obeying his wife with no bad grace, yet incapable of withholding his lecture; “he will say it was my fault. And how did you persuade him to let you go?” “He did not let me go. I said I was going to the villa to the children. He will not find out till Sunday, that is to-morrow, and he will have my telegram first. There is no harm done. I believe,” she added, tranquilly, “he will be as glad as any one to think I have taken it into my own hands. And look, I am not cold. I liked the air above everything. Poor Paolo and Benedetta chattered with their teeth, but it was delightful to me. My poor little mamma was a girl; I am full grown, strong; and I adore England. It is beautiful. I am enchanted with the Fells. The grey is lovely; it is your only colour. Harry, Harry, you great bear, say you are glad to see me, or your mother will think we are not fond of each other: which is not true, dearest, dearest lady,” said Rita, once more kissing Mrs. Joscelyn’s hand. “I am sure anybody would be fond of you,” Mrs. Joscelyn said, gazing with wonder and awe--but flattered, touched, astonished beyond measure--at this beautiful young woman, so enthusiastic, so self-possessed, so fluent, whom she had never heard of before. “Oh, fond of her, what has that to do with it?” cried Harry. “So you have brought Benedetta and poor Paolo,” he cried. After this Paolo was brought in, and warmed and fed; but it took a long time to bring him round. He had thought it a very fine thing to come off to England for his holiday, romantically following a beautiful young lady, helping another to reunite herself to her husband; but the journey and the privations, want of sleep and over-fatigue, and the wind of an English May, blowing at six o’clock in the morning over the Fells, had been too much for poor Paolo. He sounded his friend a few days after, when he had partially recovered his spirits, as to the custom in English families when they married their daughters. “For example,” he said, “Amico, if it is not impertinent. A young lady like Miss Joscelyn; so beautiful, so charming. When your parents make up their minds to marry her, they will of course make it a condition that the ’usband being so happy should live near?”