"Not so glad to see me as I am to see you. It is quite like old times--quite like old times. How is the world using you? But I need not ask; I can see for myself. I am very pleased--very--very! You deserve it. I wish the world used me as well; but we can't all be so fortunate. When I was a young man, I used to hope that when I was as old as I am now I should be able to keep a carriage. Young hopes, brother-in-law--eh? Seldom realized, are they? I can hardly afford to keep a--a wheelbarrow--eh, Jeremiah?" "Yes, sir," said Jeremiah, obsequiously. "We can't have all we wish," pursued Miser Farebrother; and Jeremiah, although he was impatient to go in search of Phoebe, whom he now looked upon as his property, could not help taking interest and pleasure in his master's gentle and philosophic departure, which he, better than any one of the other listeners, could appreciate at its true value. "In a hundred years to come, a carriage and a wheelbarrow will be all the same to us. Still, I am glad to hear of your good fortune." (Mr. Lethbridge stared, and wondered whether he was awake or asleep, or whether he had said anything of which he was unconscious.) "How well and hale you look! Not a day older--not a day. You must tell me the secret; though I fear it is too late for me. And this young gentleman"--turning to Bob, who became suddenly very hot and uncomfortable--"your son, eh?--your bright boy?" "Yes," said Mr. Lethbridge; "our son Robert." "How do you do, nephew?" said Miser Farebrother, giving Bob two fingers, which, when Bob got them, he did not know what to do with. "And how is the world using _you_?" "Extremely well, sir, thank you," Bob blurted out, without in the least knowing what he was saying; for, instead of the world using him extremely well, it was not using him at all. "How pleasant to hear!" exclaimed Miser Farebrother. "I feel like rubbing my hands, but one has my crutch-stick in it, and the other is leaning on Jeremiah. You come of a lucky stock; go on and prosper, nephew. And this--" He turned to Fanny, who, in a feverish state, was awaiting recognition. She was so confused that it was not until hours afterward that her indignation was excited at being referred to as "this"--as though she were a chattel. "Our daughter Fanny," said Aunt Leth, observing that her husband was incapable of speech. "Kiss me, niece," said Miser Farebrother. He raised his wrinkled face, and Fanny put her lips to it. He called a joyous look into his eyes, and in a kind of rapture murmured: "The kiss of beauty! But don't be too lavish of them, niece." He peered around as though he suddenly missed somebody. "Where is your young gentleman, niece?" Jeremiah chuckled quietly. "_My_ young gentleman!" cried Fanny, flushing up. Her mother gave her a warning look. "Yes, your young gentleman. There is one here, isn't there? or did Phoebe make a mistake?" "You mean Mr. Cornwall," said Aunt Leth, in a gentle tone.