“Horatio, my dear doctor! Good gracious, man, what are you doing here? I have sought you everywhere as the spouse of the canticle sought the goat. Oh, my goodness, let me sit down and find breath! I have news!” News! On her entrance, David had drawn himself slowly together with lustreless eye and turned vaguely to greet the new-comer, but her last words brought him to her side with a spring that overtook even his exclamation. “News!” he echoed. And the two men looked at each other. What could news mean to them but one thing? Madam Tutterville tottered to a chair, untied her hat-strings, let her hands drop upon her comfortable knees, and turned her eyes from one eager face to the other. Her own full-moon countenance was irradiated with a harvest-like glow. The infantile smile of her best moods was upon her lips. But woman will remain woman no matter how clothed with superfluous flesh. Sophia positively coquetted with the moment, dallied with her own consciousness of power as complacently as any slim chit of eighteen. She vowed she was tired to death; pettishly requested Horatio not to hang over her: she was hot, she was stifling. She then, in a tone of promising importance, announced that she was back from Bath (for her autumn shopping), and then broke off to stare at David as if she had but just become aware of his presence, and to comment upon his unexpected return with exasperating interest. “And what news have you brought?” quoth she, with emphasis. Bitter disappointment set its mark on David’s face. “Have you found traces of Ellinor?” pursued the lady. David drew back, shaking his head; but the parson found a different meaning in his wife’s bantering tone. He caught her plump hand. “Ah, excellent Sophia!” said he. “I might have known you would come to the rescue, as ever! You have heard of the child!” Madam Tutterville was no longer able to control the tide of her triumph: “Heard of her? Traced—found her—seen her! But this hour come from her! Have held her in these arms!” Her voice rose with ever increasing flourish till it broke upon the over-high note. The next instant she was clasped in her lord’s embrace; and, as she sobbed with joy upon his shoulder, it may be that even the worthy gentleman’s own eyes grew wet. David stood quite still, in that intensity of stillness which cloaks an intensity of emotion. When the worthy couple had recovered from their effusiveness, Madam Tutterville, now with full gusto, began to narrate her story: “You see, dear Horatio, I could not but feel that you regarded me to blame for poor Ellinor’s flight. And perhaps you are right, doctor, for I fear, in my anxiety, I did indeed fail to observe the scriptural rule that silence is a most excellent thing in woman: A melancholy breach of my usual rule of life——” “Yes, dear,” said the parson blandly, “and so it was in Bath, Sophia——”