Of course I brought out our best table linen and china, rubbed up our silver and glass, and with Aunt Jane’s lilies for decoration our dinner-table looked as nice as possible. Cecilly ran up the road to meet Jack to tell him the news as soon as she saw him, and we had to be quite determined not to be over-ruled, so anxious was he for various additions to our meal. “Could you not run to Aunt Jane and ask her to lend us her maid,” he asked, but I insisted on no change being made. “Mr. Marriott is coming to see how clever Cynthia is, and not to quiz us,” I replied, so Jack had to be content. The soup was a great success. We turned the Mulligatawny pie into an _entrée_, and added the jam tarts to the pudding course. Cecilly and Bob fetched and carried the dishes, though I slipped out during the cheese course to make the coffee for dessert. We were a very merry party at dinner, and Cynthia had many congratulations from us all. Jack and Mr. Marriott were a long time before they joined us in the drawing-room, but when they came the evening was one of the pleasantest we had spent since dear father’s illness. Jack was so much more like his old self, and Mr. Marriott so positive of father’s recovery that every doubt and perplexity of life fled, and it seemed to me that all the pain of separation and the grave anxieties of the past were now fled for ever. Cecilly and the boys had gone up to bed while I waited for Jack to return from walking back with Cynthia and her father, and when he came in I saw at once he had good news for me. “Oh, Kitty,” he cried, in his old boyish manner, “you can never guess what Mr. Marriott has said to me this evening. He said he always knew a good son would make a good husband, but that he felt his little girl would never make a good wife for a poor man. But, Kitty Mavourneen, he says you and Cecilly have shown her the way, and if, when she is twenty-one, I like to ask her to be my wife, he won’t send me away.” I was obliged to run upstairs to call Cecilly to hear these good tidings, and Cecilly in her dressing-gown, with her hair streaming down her back, rushed down the stairs at a bound to hug Jack in a way she had not dared to do since he had grown “so cross and old.” It was but a few weeks afterwards that we were welcoming father and mother back once more—father, older-looking certainly than before his illness, but no longer an invalid, while mother looked stronger and rosier than any of us could remember her. They were both surprised to find how well we could manage the housework, though father insisted on our keeping Beatrice Ethel all day to do the heaviest work.