“Probably he's too busy to write,” said the cooper.

“I told you so,” said Rachel, in one of her usual fits of depression. “I told you Jack wasn't fit to be sent on such an errand. If you'd only taken my advice, you wouldn't have had so much worry and trouble about him now. Most likely he's got into the House of Reformation, or somewhere. I knew a young man once who went away from home, and never came back again. Nobody ever knew what became of him till his body was found in the river, half-eaten by fishes.”

“How can you talk so, Rachel?” said Mrs. Crump, indignantly; “and of your own nephew, too!”

“This is a world of trial and disappointment,” said Rachel; “and we might as well expect the worst, because it's sure to come.”

“At that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life,” said the cooper. “No, Rachel, you are wrong. God didn't send us into the world to be melancholy². He wants us to enjoy ourselves. Now I have no idea that Jack has jumped into the river. Then again, if he has, he can swim.”

“I suppose,” said Rachel, “you expect him to come home in a coach and four, bringing Ida with him.”

“Well,” said the cooper, good-humoredly, “I don't know but that is as probable as your anticipations³.”

Rachel shook her head dismally⁴.

“Bless me!” said Mrs. Crump, in a tone of excitement; “there's a carriage just stopped at our door, and—yes, it is Jack, and Ida too!”

The strange (sic) fulfilment of the cooper's suggestion struck even Aunt Rachel. She, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome carriage drawn⁵, not by four horses, but by two elegant bays, standing⁶ before the door. Jack had already jumped out, and was now assisting Ida to alight. No sooner was Ida on firm ground than she ran into the house, and was at once clasped in the arms of her adopted mother.

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