When the carriages drew near, Joe Harper was not to be seen. He was not on the first—nor the second. His anxious father made bold to inquire. He was on horseback behind, safe and well, was the reply. His father, his sisters, looked and looked in vain, while the carriages slowly proceeded past the church and along the street. The music, the shouts, the ding-dong bell, the waving of hats, and shaking of hands, were all lost on the Harpers, who were watching for their long-absent son and brother. At length he came, at full gallop, not along the high-road, but from a lane which led in a circuit from our house. “Why, he forgets the way!” exclaimed his sisters.—I knew better, for I understood where he had been; and I said to myself, “Now Maria is happy.” The villagers dined under the trees in the park; and a beautiful sight it was. We joined Sir Henry’s family in their walk round the tables, and helped to ascertain that all were served and all were happy. Joe Harper presided at one of the tables by his master’s desire; and very attentive he was to all near him. Maria was seated far off at another table with her father.—When the roast beef and plum-puddings had been dispatched, the healths of the family drunk, the few speeches made, and “God save the King” sung in full chorus, a signal was given for clearing the tables that the dancing might begin. The old men seated themselves with their pipes under the trees; the elderly women chatted and kept the children in order, while the young folks tripped it away on the grass. Everybody danced at first who could not plead age and rheumatism in excuse. Mr. Withers himself, my brothers and I, and everybody, danced: but afterwards people were left free to do as they liked; and then I observed that Joe had disappeared, and that Maria was nowhere to be found. Joe’s master inquired; Maria’s father looked about, but nobody could wonder what had become of them in such a crowd; and so it did not matter. I could have told; for I saw two people stealing away into a shady walk just before sunset, and leaving the bustle and merriment behind them;—to enjoy something better, no doubt. The village rang with the praises of Mr. Henry. He was so hearty, so kind, so much like what he used to be in all the better parts of his character, though so many years older in looks and manners. It was difficult to believe that he had been absent for so many years, for he had forgotten no person, place, or circumstance. He inquired after the old magpie, took down his angling rod with pleasure, and told his former playfellows about what he had seen since he left England. What was better, he went to visit old nurse Pitman, who was bedridden, and could not therefore pay her respects to him; and early one morning he was seen on the dewy grass of the churchyard, reading the tombstones which had been put up during the last five years.