Then followed a reaction, and a period of remorseful uxorious penitence, during which Laurence submitted with a tolerable grace to a lecture from Mr. Aspinall, who saw that something was amiss; and chivalrous gallantry towards woman being part of this gentleman’s creed, he did not spare his son. Nor did Laurence spare himself. He knelt at his wife’s feet, called her “an angel,” and himself “a savage,” implored her forgiveness, excused his jealousy on the ground of passionate love, lavished his means on extravagant gifts for her, and exhausted language in fair promises. But so proud was he of his wife’s beauty, that he must needs exhibit at theatre and assembly the jewel he had won; whilst the admiration she excited set his jealous brain on fire, and she paid the penalty in the silence of night, or even in the close carriage driving home. But his contrition and the old plea of “excessive love” for his jealous infirmity won her over, and not even Cicily more than suspected half his cruelty. * * * * * Great preparations had been made at Whaley-Bridge for the reception of Mr. and Mrs. Clegg; the factory windows were extra burnished; the landlord of the White Hart hoisted a flag; the mill-hands lined the road to greet them; the avenue gate was thrown open that the chaise might drive on to the cottage; somebody had put Crazy Joe into a new suit of clothes for the occasion, and he stood by the side of little Sim on the step of the Gothic arch (the greater child of the twain) to laugh and chuckle a welcome, as sincere in its way as the homely greetings of the orphan’s fosterers. It was a fine stalwart young man, of open but grave countenance, around whom Bess threw her motherly arms, while Tom Hulme helped the bride to alight, and marshalled the way for the pair, who followed arm-in-arm into the house-place, where Simon, stiff with age and rheumatism, kept possession of the padded chair set apart for the sick or aged. In some way the knowledge that Mr. Clegg came as a master, and not as a servant, had preceded him. “Eh, Jabez, lad,” exclaimed Simon, tears of joy coursing down his cheeks, “that aw should ever live to see this day! Would annyone ha’ thowt as th’ little lass ’at played wi’ ar Jabez an’ his toys, an’ kissed him when he wur a babby, would come to wed him when he wur a mon—an’ a gentlemon into th’ bargain! an’ neaw let thi wife goo an’ tak’ oft her pelisse while thah talks to me; hoo’ll be tired wi’ th’ lung journey, aw reckon. Theere’s a fire i’ th’ best parlour, that’s th’ place fur gentlefolk, an’ yo’r supper’s laid theer.” Old Simon naturally concluded that young lovers wanted no society but each other. On five-year-old Sim such a consciousness had not yet dawned, and so he penetrated into the “best parlour,” and, much to the relief of the bridegroom, broke into that first domestic _tête-à-tête_ to exhibit some wonderful pictures he had drawn with red ruddle picked from the gravel-path.