“But ye see, my man,” said Dragon, eagerly, shuffling about his little platform, as he looked down on Cuthbert, “I never had her about me or among my hands, when she was a little bairn; and if it was either Missie there, or the ither ane, I would have a greater miss; for I’ve gotten into a way o’ telling them stories, and gieing a word of advice to the bit things, and training them the way they should go; so they’re turned just like bairns o’ my ain. But I wish Miss Rose and you muckle joy, and increase and prosperity, and that ye may learn godly behaviour, and be douce heads of a family; and that’s the warst wish that’s in my head, though you _are_ taking ane of the family away, and I never was married mysel.” And Cuthbert, responding with another joyous laugh, shook hands with Dragon, after a manner somewhat exhausting to the loose arm, of whose strength the old man had boasted, and immediately went away to the waterside, to take a meditative walk along its banks, and smile at himself for his own exuberant boyish joy. Serious and solemn had been many of the past occasions on which he had visited Allenders; and now, as the fulfilment of all his old anticipations approached so certainly, so close at hand, Cuthbert’s moved heart turned to Harry--poor Harry! whose very name had a charm in it of mournful devotion and love! The sun shone in next morning gaily to the rooms of Allenders, now suddenly awakened as out of a three years’ sleep; and Agnes curls her bright hair, and lets the sunshine glow upon it as she winds it round her fingers, and with a sigh, lays away the widow’s cap, which would not be suitable, she thinks, on Rose’s wedding-day; but the sigh is a long-drawn breath of relief--and with an innocent satisfaction, Agnes, blooming and youthful still, sees her pretty curls fall again upon her cheek, and puts on her new white gown. It is a pleasant sensation, and her heart rises unawares, though this other sigh parts her lips. Poor Harry! his little wife will think of him to-day! Think and weep, but only with a serene and gentle melancholy; for the young joyous nature has long been rising; and Agnes, though she never can forget, laments no longer with the reality of present grief. It is no longer present--it is past, and only exists in remembrance; and Agnes is involuntarily glad, and will wear her widow’s cap no more. And Martha is dressing little Harry, who will not be quiet in her hands for two minutes at a time, but dances about with a perpetual elasticity, which much retards his toilet. There are smiles on Martha’s face--grave, quiet smiles--for she too has been thinking, with a few tears this morning, that Harry will be at the bride’s side, to join in the blessing with which she sends her other child away.