"Well, I've put it on the table, ma'am; and I'm just going to step across now to Hester Bitton's, and tell her she'll be wanted here to-morrow." Annet went into the porch, and stood there looking out for her husband, shading her eyes with her hand from the red glare. Some business connected with stock took him to Worcester that day, and he had started in the early morning; but Annet had expected him home earlier than this. There he was, riding down the road at a sharpish trot; Annet heard the horse's hoofs before she saw him. He waved his hand to her in the distance, and she fluttered her white handkerchief back again. Thorpe, the indoor man, appeared to take the horse. Francis Radcliffe had been changing for the better during the past twelvemonth. Regular habits and regular hours, and a mind healthily occupied, had done great things for him. His face was bright, his blue eyes were clear, and his smile and his voice were alike cheering as he got off the horse and greeted his wife. "You are late, Frank! It is ever so much past eight." "Our clocks are fast: I've found that out to-day, Annet, But I could not get back before." He had gone into the parlour, had kissed her, and was disincumbering his pockets of various parcels: she helping him. Both were laughing, for there seemed to be no end to them. They contained articles wanted for the morrow: macaroons, and potted lampreys, and lots of good things. "Don't say again that I forget your commissions, Annet." "Never again, Frank. How good you are! But what is in this one? it feels soft." "That's for yourself," said Frank. "Open it." Cutting the string, the paper flew apart, disclosing a baby's cloak of white braided cashmere. Annet laughed and blushed. "Oh, Frank! How could you?" "Why, I heard you say you must get one." "Yes--but--not just yet. It may not be wanted, you know." "Stuff! The thing was in Mrs. What's-her-name's window in High Street, staring passers-by in the face; so I went in, and bought it." "It's too beautiful," murmured Annet, putting it reverently into the paper, as if she mistook it for a baby. "And how has the day gone, Frank? Could you buy the sheep?" "Yes; all right. The sheep--Annet, who _do_ you think is coming here to-morrow? Going to honour us as one of the guests?" At the break in the sentence, Frank had flung himself into a chair, and thrown his head back, laughing. Annet wondered. "Stephen! It's true. He had gone to Worcester after some sheep himself. I asked whether we should have the pleasure of seeing them here, and he curtly said that he was coming, but couldn't answer for Mrs. Radcliffe. Had the Pope of Rome told me he was coming, I should not have been more surprised." "Stephen's wife took no notice of the invitation." "Writing is not in her line: or in his either. Something must be in the wind, Annet: neither he nor his wife has been inside our doors yet."