Across the way, if the gracious reader will please to step over with us, he will find our young gentlemen at Lord Wrotham’s house, which his lordship has lent to his friend the General, and that little family party assembled, with which we made acquaintance at Oakhurst and Tunbridge Wells. James Wolfe has promised to come to dinner; but James is dancing attendance upon Miss Lowther, and would rather have a glance from her eyes than the finest kickshaws dressed by Lord Wrotham’s cook, or the dessert which is promised for the entertainment at which you are just going to sit down. You will make the sixth. You may take Mr. Wolfe’s place. You may be sure he won’t come. As for me, I will stand at the sideboard and report the conversation.

Note first, how happy the women look! When Harry Warrington was taken by those bailiffs, I had intended to tell you how the good Mrs. Lambert, hearing of the boy’s mishap, had flown to her husband, and had begged, implored, insisted, that her Martin should help him. “Never mind his rebeldom of the other day; never mind about his being angry that his presents were returned — of course anybody would be angry, much more such a high-spirited lad as Harry! Never mind about our being so poor, and wanting all our spare money for the boys at college; there must be some way of getting him out of the scrape. Did you not get Charles Watkins out of the scrape two years ago; and did he not pay you back every halfpenny? Yes; and you made a whole family happy, blessed be God! and Mrs. Watkins prays for you and blesses you to this very day, and I think everything has prospered with us since. And I have no doubt it has made you a major-general — no earthly doubt,” says the fond wife.

Now, as Martin Lambert requires very little persuasion to do a kind action, he in this instance lets himself be persuaded easily enough, and having made up his mind to seek for friend James Wolfe, and give bail for Harry, he takes his leave and his hat, and squeezes Theo’s hand, who seems to divine his errand (or perhaps that silly mamma has blabbed it), and kisses little Hetty’s flushed cheek, and away he goes out of the apartment where the girls and their mother are sitting, though he is followed out of the room by the latter.

When she is alone with him, that enthusiastic matron cannot control her feelings any longer. She flings her arms round her husband’s neck, kisses him a hundred and twenty-five times in an instant — calls God to bless him — cries plentifully on his shoulder; and in this sentimental attitude is discovered by old Mrs. Quiggett, my lord’s housekeeper, who is bustling about the house, and, I suppose, is quite astounded at the conjugal phenomenon.

“We have had a tiff, and we are making it up! Don’t tell tales out of school, Mrs. Quiggett!” says the gentleman, walking off.

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