On an afternoon three or four days after the recovery of Sam, matters became complicated. George, as usual, discovered that he had been dawdling in the portals of his desires, when the doors came to with a bang. Then he hastened to knock. “Tell her,” he said, “I will come up tomorrow after milking—tell her I’m coming to see her.” On the evening of that morrow, the first person to put in an appearance was a garrulous spinster who had called ostensibly to inquire into the absence of the family from church: “I said to Elizabeth, ‘Now what a _thing_ if anything happens to them just now, and the wedding is put off.’ I felt I _must_ come and make myself sure—that nothing had happened. We all feel _so_ interested in Lettie just now. I’m sure everybody is talking of her, she seems in the air.—I really think we shall have thunder: I _hope_ we shan’t.—Yes, we are all so glad that Mr. Tempest is content with a wife from at home—the others, his father and Mr. Robert and the rest—they were none of them to be suited at home, though to be sure the wives they brought were nothing—indeed they were not—as many a one said—Mrs. Robert was a paltry choice—neither in looks or manner had she anything to boast of—if her family was older than mine. Family wasn’t much to make up for what she lacked in other things, that I could easily have supplied her with; and, oh, dear, what an object she is now, with her wisp of hair and her spectacles! She for one hasn’t kept much of her youth. But when _is_ the exact date, dear?—Some say this and some that, but as I always say, I never trust a ‘they say.’ It is so nice that you have that cousin a canon to come down for the service, Mrs. Beardsall, and Sir Walter Houghton for the groom’s man! What?—You don’t think so—oh, but I know, dear, I know; you do like to treasure up these secrets, don’t you; you are greedy for all the good things just now.” She shook her head at Lettie, and the jet ornaments on her bonnet twittered like a thousand wagging little tongues. Then she sighed, and was about to recommence her song, when she happened to turn her head and to espy a telegraph boy coming up the path. “Oh, I hope nothing is wrong, dear—I hope nothing is wrong! I always feel so terrified of a telegram. You’d better not open it yourself, dear—don’t now—let your brother go.” Lettie, who had turned pale, hurried to the door. The sky was very dark—there was a mutter of thunder. “It’s all right,” said Lettie, trembling, “it’s only to say he’s coming to-night.” “I’m very thankful, very thankful,” cried the spinster. “It might have been so much worse. I’m sure I never open a telegram without feeling as if I was opening a death-blow. I’m so glad, dear; it must have upset you. What news to take back to the village, supposing something had happened!” she sighed again, and the jet drops twinkled ominously in the thunder light, as if declaring they would make something of it yet.