“Dick’s!” cried my uncle, and pushed open the drawing-room door. What made my heart to beat when I saw thee, Theresa? She and her papa left my aunt, and met us half-way. “How are you, Dick?” “How are you, Tom?” “This _is_ kind of you, Theresa!” “Delighted to see you, Charlie!” “What a blow! when did you come?” “How unexpected! where is Conny?” These greetings having been got through, we all sat down, I close alongside of Theresa. “This is a real pleasure,” said I. “Did you get my letter?” “Yes, and answered it.” “I mean the one I posted last night.” “No. We left before the mid-day post arrived. Papa thought we couldn’t do less than run over to Grove End and see how you were all enduring your trouble.” “Do I look crushed?” She smiled. “Am I thinner, do you think? do I appear wasted? are my cheeks hollow, and is there anything approaching a broken-hearted expression in my eyes?” “You look very well. I wish I could say as much for poor aunt. Troubles of this kind seem to agree with you.” And how well and how handsome _she_ was looking! how her fine eyes glittered! “Well,” said I, “though this trouble hasn’t disagreed with me, I feel very much for the father and mother. How long are you going to stop here?” “We return to-morrow.” “I shall be very much disgusted if you do,” I exclaimed. “Why, what does Theresa mean by sitting in her hat?” cried uncle Tom. “We have only been here ten minutes,” answered his brother. “My dear, take off your hat,” said my aunt, leaving the sofa, with her eyes inflamed by tears. “Come up-stairs with me.” “But we didn’t mean to stay,” answered Theresa. “But you will, and you’ll sleep here, too,” exclaimed uncle Tom. This observation provoked an argument which ended in Theresa’s defeat and departure with her aunt up-stairs. “I was never more amazed than when I read Charlie’s letter,” said uncle Dick. “The wife bears it badly.” “Very badly,” groaned uncle Tom. “In fact she is the great difficulty now. Grieved and upset as I first was, I could very soon get used to the thing, if my wife would only stop crying and storming. Of course, Curling is a wretched match for my child, and the elopement makes the whole affair confoundedly humiliating. But it has its bright side. Curling is a first-rate clerk, and, as my son-in-law, can render himself invaluable to me as a right-hand man. Conny is devoted to him, and I have no doubt he’ll prove a good husband. If my wife would only view the matter a little cheerfully, it would lose half its gloom.” “It _is_ a confounded upset,” said Dick: “but you are perfectly right to look at it cheerfully. My philosophy, when a bad thing happens, is, to think that it might have been worse, like the Dutchman in the ‘Spectator,’ who, on breaking his leg, thanked God it wasn’t his neck. What have you done with the young people?” This question brought about a long and minute narrative, which was barely finished when my aunt and cousin returned.