The Duke (little Willy) was in an agony, and was forcibly withheld by Bassanio from crying “No, he shan’t!” Nerissa was so absorbed as even to have forgotten herself; Shylock could hardly keep his countenance up to the necessary expression of malice and obduracy; even Johnny and Dick were hanging with breathless attention on the “but,” when suddenly there was a general start throughout the party; the door opened; Atkins, with a voice and face full of delight, announced “Master Roger,” and there entered a young man, in a pea jacket and worsted comforter. Such confusion, such rapture as ensued! The tumultuous welcomes and handshakings before the sailor had time to distinguish one from another, the actors assuming their own characters, grandmamma and Mrs. Roger Langford asking dozens of questions in a breath, and Mr. Roger Langford fast asleep in his great arm-chair, till roused by Dick tugging at his arm, and Willy hammering on his knee, he slowly arose, saying, “What, Roger, my boy, is it you? I thought it was all their acting!” “Ah! Miss Jessie,” exclaimed Roger; “that is right: I have not seen such a crop of shining curls since I have been gone. So you have not lost your pink cheeks with pining for me. How are they all at home?” “Here, Roger, your Aunt Mary,” said his mother; and instantly there was a subduing of the young sailor’s boisterous mirth, as he turned to answer her gentle welcome. The laugh arose the next moment at the appearance of the still half-disguised actors: Alex without Bassanio’s short black cloak and slouched hat and feather, but still retaining his burnt cork eyebrows and moustache, and wondering that Roger did not know him; Uncle Geoffrey still in Shylock’s yellow cap, and Fred somewhat grim with the Prince of Morocco’s complexion. “How d’ye do, Phil?” said Roger, returning his cousinly shake of the hand with interest. “What! are not you Philip Carey?” “O, Roger, Roger!” cried a small figure, in whom the Italian maiden predominated. “What, Aunt Geoffrey masquerading too? How d’ye do, aunt?” “Well done, Roger! That’s right! Go on!” cried his father, laughing heartily. “Is it not my aunt? No? Is it the little Bee, then? Why you are grown as like her! But where is Aunt Geoffrey then? Not here? That is a bore. I thought you would have all been in port here at Christmas. And is not this Philip? Come tell me, some of you, instead of laughing there. Are you Fred Langford, then?” “Right this time,” said Fred, “so now you must shake hands with me in my own name.” “Very glad to do so, and see you here at last,” said Roger, cordially. “And now tell me, what is all this about? One would think you were crossing the Line?” “You shall hear what it is all about, and see too,” said Mr. Langford. “We must have that wicked old Jew disappointed, must not we, Willy? But where is my little Portia? What is become of her?” “Fled, I suspect,” said her mother, “gone to turn into herself before her introduction.”