The old man’s harp was set down in Farmer Price’s kitchen, and he promised to play a tune for the boys before they went to bed; their mother giving them leave to sit up to supper with their father. He came home with a sorrowful countenance; but how soon did it brighten, when Susan, with a smile, said to him, “Father, we’ve good news for you! good news for us all!—You have a whole week longer to stay with us; and perhaps,” continued she, putting her little purse into his hands,—“perhaps with what’s here, and the bread bills, and what may somehow be got together before a week’s at an end, we may make up the nine guineas for the substitute, as they call him. Who knows, dearest mother, but we may keep him with us for ever!” As she spoke, she threw her arms round her father, who pressed her to his bosom without speaking, for his heart was full. He was some little time before he could perfectly believe that what he heard was true; but the revived smiles of his wife, the noisy joy of his little boys, and the satisfaction that shone in Susan’s countenance, convinced him that he was not in a dream. As they sat down to supper, the old harper was made welcome to his share of the cheerful though frugal meal. Susan’s father, as soon as supper was finished, even before he would let the harper play a tune for his boys, opened the little purse, which Susan had given him. He was surprised at the sight of the twelve shillings, and still more, when he came to the bottom of the purse, to see the bright golden guinea. “How did you come by all this money, Susan?” said he. “Honestly and handsomely, that I’m sure of beforehand,” said her proud mother; “but how I can’t make out, except by the baking. Hey, Susan is this your first baking?” “Oh, no, no,” said her father, “I have her first baking snug here, besides, in my pocket. I kept it for a surprise, to do your mother’s heart good, Susan. Here’s twenty-nine shillings, and the Abbey bill, which is not paid yet, comes to ten more. What think you of this, wife? Have we not a right to be proud of our Susan? Why,” continued he, turning to the harper, “I ask your pardon for speaking out so free before strangers in praise of my own, which I know is not mannerly; but the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken, as I think, at all times; therefore, here’s your good health, Susan; why, by-and-by she’ll be worth her weight in gold—in silver at least. But tell us, child, how came you by all this riches? and how comes it that I don’t go to-morrow? All this happy news makes me so gay in myself, I’m afraid I shall hardly understand it rightly. But speak on, child—first bringing us a bottle of the good mead you made last year from your own honey.”