T
THE Dutch clock in the corner struck ten, when the carrier sat down at his fireside. So troubled was he that he scarcely heard the cuckoo as it counted off the strokes.
He could scarcely believe what his eyes had seen in the wareroom of Gruff and Tackleton. If any one had told him, he would not have believed his Dot could be a party to such dreadful deceit.
Yet, in his own heart, he did not blame her, but rather the old young man who had been so wickedly unfair, and he was planning to do him harm to pay him back. He hoped that Dot would be able to explain; but no—there really wasn’t any hope of that.
There, she was coming.
She had been upstairs with the baby, putting it to bed.
As he sat brooding near the hearth, she came close to him, and put her little stool at his feet. He then felt her hand upon his own, and knew she was looking up in his face.
He glanced at her. She looked as sweet as ever, until she caught the expression on his face. At first she seemed surprised, then her surprise changed in a wild recognition of his thoughts, and she simply bent her head and clasped her hands, but no words were said.
At length she rose and went away, and he felt glad, for the first time since he had known her, to have her gone.
There was a gun hanging on the wall. He took it down, and moved toward the Stranger’s room. He put his hand to the door—when suddenly the struggling fire burst into a glow of light, and the cricket on the hearth began to chirp.
No sound he could have heard, no human voice, not even hers, could so have moved and softened him. The very words in which she had told him of her love for this same cricket were as if just spoken in her sweet, pleasant voice, making household music; and they thrilled through and through his better nature, and awoke it into life and action.
He moved from the door like a man who had been walking in his sleep when awakening from a frightful dream. He put the gun aside. Clasping his hands before his face, he sat down again beside the fire.
The cricket on the hearth came out into the room and stood in fairy shape before him.
“‘I love it’,” said the fairy voice, “‘for the many times I have heard it, and the many thoughts its harmless music has given me’.”
“She said so!” cried the carrier. “True!” “‘This has been a happy home, John; and I love the cricket for its sake.’”
“She’s so sweet-tempered, so cheerful, busy, light-hearted. Otherwise I never could have loved her as I did.”
The voice, correcting him, said, “do.”
“You should trust her,” the fairy voice said.
All night long he listened to the voice. All night long the household fairies were busy with him, showing him how sweet and dear she was; how he had never found her untrue, or had reason to doubt her except this once.
He rose up when it was broad day, and washed and tidied himself.
He could not go on his usual rounds, for it was Tackleton’s wedding day. He had planned to go merrily to the church with Dot. But such plans were at an end. Ah! what a different wedding anniversary he had expected!
The carrier had thought that Tackleton would pay him an early visit, and he was right. He had just finished brushing his hair when he saw the merchant in his carriage coming along the road. As the carriage drew near he saw that Tackleton was dressed out sprucely for marriage, and that he had decorated his horse’s head with flowers and favors.
The horse looked much more like a bridegroom than Tackleton, whose half-closed eye was more disagreeably expressive than ever. But the carrier took little heed of this. His thoughts were elsewhere.
“John Peerybingle!” said Tackleton. “My good fellow, how do you find yourself this morning?”
“I have had but a poor night, Mr. Tackleton,” said the carrier, shaking his head, “for I have been a good deal disturbed in my mind. But it’s over now! Can you spare me half an hour or so, for some private talk?”
“I came on purpose,” returned Tackleton lightly. “Never mind the horse. He’ll stand quiet enough if you’ll give him a mouthful of hay.”
“You are not to be married before noon, I think?” said John.
“No,” answered Tackleton. “Plenty of time. Plenty of time.”
When they entered the kitchen, Tilly Slowboy was knocking at the Stranger’s door. One of her very red eyes was at the keyhole, for she had been crying because her mistress cried. She was knocking very loud, and seemed frightened.
“If you please, I can’t make nobody hear,” said Tilly, looking round. “I hope nobody ain’t gone and been and died, if you please.”
This hope Miss Slowboy made more emphatic by kicking on the door, but it led to no result.
“Shall I help?” asked Tackleton, turning to John.
The carrier nodded his head.
So Tackleton went to the door and he, too, kicked and knocked; and he, too, failed to get any reply. But he thought of trying the handle of the door, and as it opened easily, he peeped in, went in, and soon came running out again.
“He’s gone!” said Tackleton; “and the window’s open. I don’t see any marks—to be sure—or signs of a fight, but I thought perhaps you might have been so angry——”
He nearly shut up the expressive eye altogether, he looked at John so hard. And he gave his eye, and his face, and his whole body, a sharp twist, as if he would have screwed the truth out of John.
“Make yourself easy,” said the carrier. “He went into that room last night without harm in word or act from me, and no one has entered it since. He has gone away of his own free will.”
“Oh! Well, I think he has got off pretty easy,” said Tackleton, taking a chair.
The sneer was lost upon the carrier, who sat down, too, and shaded his face in his hand for some time before speaking.
“You showed me last night,” he said at length, “my wife, my dear wife that I love, deceiving me, and meeting a strange man who had deceived me. I think there’s no man in the world I wouldn’t rather have had show it to me.”
“I confess I know that I am not a favorite in your home, John, because I never believed wholly in your pretty little wife,” said Tackleton.
“And as you did show me, and as you saw her to such disadvantage, it is right you should know what my mind is on the subject. For it’s settled, and nothing can change it.”
Tackleton muttered a few words about its being necessary to decide, but he was overawed by the manner of his companion. Plain and unpolished as it was, there was something noble and dignified about it.
“I am a plain, rough man,” continued the carrier, “with very little to recommend me. I am not a clever man, as you verywell know. I am not a young man. I loved my little Dot because I had seen her grow up from a child, in her father’s house; because I knew how precious she was; because she had been in my life for years and years.”
He paused a moment, then went on.
“I often thought that though I wasn’t good enough for her, I should make her a kind husband, and perhaps appreciate her better than another. And so it came about we were married.”
“Hah!” said Tackleton, with a shake of his head.
“I knew how much I loved her, and how happy I should be,” continued the carrier; “but I had not sufficiently considered her.”
“No,” said Tackleton. “No; you didn’t stop to think how giddy, frivolous, fickle, vain! Hah!”
“You’d better not interrupt me,” said the carrier, with some sternness, “till you understand me, which you seem far from doing.”
The toy merchant looked at him in surprise.
“I didn’t consider that I took her, at her age, with her beauty, away from her young companions and their many scenes of pleasure into my dull house and my tedious society. I didn’t consider how little suited I was to her fun and humor, and how wearisome I must be to one of her quick spirit. No! I took advantage of her hopeful nature, and I married her. I shouldn’t have done so!”
The toy merchant gazed at him without winking. Even the half-shut eye was now open.
“Heaven bless her!” said the carrier, “for the cheerful way she has tried not to let me see how it was! Heaven help me, that, in my slow mind I have not found it out before. Poor child! Poor Dot! Strange I did not realize when I have seen her eyes fill with tears on hearing of such a marriage as our own spoken of. How good and kind she has been! The thought will comfort me when I am here alone.”
“Here alone?” said Tackleton. “Then you do mean to take some notice of her deceit?”
“I mean,” answered the carrier, “to do her the greatest kindness in my power—to try to make it all up to her. She shall be free to go where she will.”
“Make it up to her!” exclaimed Tackleton, twisting and turning his great ears with his hands. “I must have heard wrong. You didn’t say that, of course.”
“Didn’t I speak plainly?” said the carrier, giving the toy merchant a shake.
“Very plainly indeed,” answered Tackleton.
“As if I meant it?”
“Very much as if you meant it.”
“Anger and distrust have left me,” said the carrier; “and nothing but my grief remains. In an unhappy moment some old lover, better suited to her years than I, returned. Last night she saw him in the interview we witnessed. It was wrong. But otherwise than this, she is innocent if there is truth on earth! I should not have taken her from her home. She shall return to it, and I will trouble her no more. Her father and mother will be here to-day, and they shall take her home. This is the end of what you showed me. Now, it’s over.”
“Oh, no, John, not over. Do not say it’s over yet. Not quite yet. I heard your noble words. I could not steal out again, letting you think me ignorant of what you said. Do not say it’s over—’till the clock has struck again!”
Dot had entered quietly while John and Tackleton were talking, and had heard every word.
“No hand can make the clock which will strike again for me the hours that are gone,” replied the carrier, with a faint smile. “But let it be so, if you will, my dear.”
“Well!” muttered Tackleton. “I must be off, for when it strikes again, I must be on my way to church. Good-by, John Peerybingle.”
The carrier saw him to the door, watched his horse until it disappeared in the distance, and then went out himself.
His little wife, being left alone, sobbed piteously, but often dried her tears to say how good and dear he was!—and once or twice she laughed through her tears so heartily and triumphantly that Tilly was quite horrified.
“Ow, if you please, don’t!” said Tilly. “It’s enough to dead and bury the baby; so it is, if you please.”
“Will you bring him to see me sometimes,” inquired her mistress, “when I don’t live here, and have gone to my old home?”
“Ow, if you please, don’t!” cried Tilly, throwing back her head. She looked a great deal like Boxer when he howled. “Ow, if you please, don’t! What has everybody gone and been and done with everybody, making everybody so miserable? Ow-w-w!”
And she might have kept on, if just at that moment Caleb Plummer had not come in, leading his daughter.
“Why, Mary” (which was Dot’s other name, you remember). “Why, Mary!” said Bertha. “Not at the wedding?”
“I told her you would not be there, mum,” whispered Caleb. “I heard as much last night. But bless you,” said the little man, “I don’t care what they say. I don’t believe them. There ain’t much of me, but what little there is would be torn to pieces sooner than I’d believe a word against you!”
He put his arms around her neck and hugged her very much as a child might have hugged one of the dolls he had made.
“Bertha wanted to come see you instead of going to the wedding,” said Caleb, “so we started in good time. I often wish I had not deceived her in regard to Tackleton, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d better tell her the truth. You’ll stay with us while I tell her, won’t you, mum?” he inquired, trembling from head to foot. “I don’t know what effect it may have upon her. I don’t know what she’ll think of me; I don’t know that she’ll ever care for her father afterwards. But it’s best she should be undeceived, and I must bear the consequences as I deserve.”
“Mary,” said Bertha, “where is your hand? I heard them speaking softly last night of some blame against you. They were wrong. I told them so. I scorned to hear a word! I know and trust you, Mary, so well that could my sight be restored at this instant, I could choose you from a crowd—my sister!”
Her father went on one side of her, while Dot remained on the other, holding her hand.
“Bertha, my dear,” said Caleb, “I have something on my mind I want to tell you while we three are alone. Listen kindly! I have a confession to make to you.”
“A confession, Father?”
“Yes, my child; I have wandered from the truth,” said Caleb, with a pitiable expression in his face. “I have wandered from the truth, intending to be kind to you; and have been cruel.”
She turned toward him, and repeated the word, “Cruel?”
“He accuses himself too strongly, Bertha,” said Dot. “You’ll say so, presently. You’ll be the first to tell him so.”
“He, cruel to me?” cried Bertha, with an unbelieving smile.
“Not meaning to be, my child,” said Caleb, “but I have been, although I never knew it until yesterday. My dear blind daughter, forgive me. The world, dear heart, is not as you imagine it. It is not as I have represented it. The eyes you have trusted in have been false to you.”
She turned her wondering face toward him still, but drew back, and clung closer to her friend.
“Your road in life was rough, my poor one,” said Caleb, “and I meant to smooth it for you. I have pictured things to you as different from what they are. I have even changed the characters of some people, to make you happier. I have surrounded you with fancies.”
“But living people are not fancies,” she said, turning very pale. “You can’t change them.”
“I have done so, Bertha,” Caleb told her. “There is one person you know——”
“Oh, Father, why do you say I know?” she said. “I who am so miserably blind.”
She stretched out her hands as if to feel her way.
“The marriage that takes place to-day,” Caleb continued, “is with a stern, sordid, grinding man. He has been a hard master to you and me, my dear, for many years. Ugly in his looks and in his nature. Cold and callous always. Unlike what I have painted him to you in everything, my child—in everything.”
“Oh, why,” cried the blind girl, “why did you ever do this? Teach me to love a person who really never existed? It is like death!”
Her poor father hung his head and offered no reply in his penitence and sorrow. Suddenly the cricket on the hearth, unheard by all but her, began to chirp, not merrily, but so mournfully that her tears began to flow; and when the fairy spirit which had been near the carrier all night, appeared behind her, pointing toward her father, she turned to Dot.
“Mary,” she said, “tell me what my home is like—what it is truly.”
“It is a poor place, Bertha; very poor and bare indeed. The house will scarcely keep out the wind and rain another winter. It is as roughly shielded from the weather, Bertha,” Dot continued in a low voice, “as your poor father in his sackcloth coat.”
The blind girl, greatly agitated, rose and led the carrier’s wife a little aside.
“Those presents that I treasured so much; that came almost at my wish,” she said, trembling; “where did they come from? Did you send them?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
Dot saw she knew already, and was silent. The blind girl spread her hands before her face again, but in quite a different manner now.
“Dear Mary, a moment, please. Speak softly. Tell me truly. Look across the room to where we were sitting just now—to where my father is—my father, so kind and loving to me—and tell me what you see.”
“I see,” said Dot, who understood her well, “an old man sitting in a chair, and leaning over sorrowfully with his head resting in his hands. He looks as if his child should comfort him, Bertha.”
“Yes, yes. She will. Go on.”
“He is an old man, worn with care and work. He is a sad, thoughtful, gray-haired man, who seems to have lost the object he most loved in the world—his child for whom he lived.”
The blind girl broke away from her, and dropping on her knees before him, threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh, my Father! My dear, dear Father!” she cried. “I have been so blind! But now my eyes are open. I never knew you. To think, I might have died and never truly known the father who has been so loving to me!”
Caleb managed to say, “My Bertha!”
“And in my blindness, I believed him to be so different,” said the girl, still caressing him, “so young and gay!”
“The fresh, smart father in the blue coat—” said poor Caleb, “he’s gone!”
“Nothing is gone,” she answered. “Dearest Father, no! Everything is here—in you. But, Father——” She hesitated.
“Mary—Mary is just what you told me? There is no change in her? You never told me anything of her that was not true?”
“I should have done so, I’m afraid,” said Caleb, “if I could have made her better than she was. But I must have changed her for the worse, if I had changedherat all. Nothing could improve her, Bertha.”
The blind girl was delighted with this reply, even though she had felt so sure of what it must be, and her renewed embrace of Dot was charming to behold.
Dot glanced at the clock, and saw that it was within a few minutes of striking, and immediately became very excited.
“More changes than you think for may happen, though,” said Dot; “changes for the better, I mean; changes for great joy to some of us. Youmustn’tlet them startle you too much when they come. But listen! You’ve a quick ear, Bertha. Do you hear wheels upon the road?”
“Yes—coming very fast.”
“I—I—I know you have a quick ear,” said Dot, holding her hand to her heart and talking as fast as she could, “because I have often noticed it, and because you were so quick to hear that strange step last night. Though why you should have taken such quick notice of it, and said, ‘Whose step is that?’ seems strange. But, as I said just now, there are great changes in this world; great changes, and we can’t do better than prepare ourselves to be surprised at hardly anything.”
Caleb wondered what she meant, for he saw that she was speaking to him as much as to his daughter. He saw with astonishment, that she was fluttered and distressed, and could scarcely breathe, as she held to a chair to save herself from falling.
“They are wheels indeed!” she panted. “Coming nearer! Nearer! Very close! And now you hear them stopping at the garden gate! And now you hear a step outside the door—the same step, Bertha—is it not?—and now!——”
She uttered a cry of delight; and running up to Caleb, put her hands over his eyes, as a young man rushed into the room, and flinging his hat into the air, came sweeping down upon them.
“Is it over?” cried Dot.
“Yes!”
“Happily over?”
“Yes!”
“Do you know the voice, dear Caleb? Did you ever hear one like it before?” cried Dot.
“If my boy who went to South America had not died—if he were alive—” said Caleb, trembling.
“He is alive!” shrieked Dot, taking her hands from his eyes, and clapping them in ecstasy. “Look at him! See, here he stands before you, healthy and strong! Your own dear son. Your own dear living brother, Bertha!”
She turned to meet the sunburned sailor half way, and let him kiss her heartily.
Just at this moment, the carrier entered. Upon seeing them thus, he started back.
“Look, John!” cried Caleb. “Look here! My own son! Him that you fitted out, and sent away yourself! Him you were always such a friend to!”
The carrier advanced to seize him by the hand, but stepped back as he noticed his resemblance to the deaf man in the cart.
“Edward! Was it you?”
“Now tell him all!” cried Dot. “Tell him all, Edward, and don’t spare me.”
“I was the man,” said Edward.
“And you stole, disguised, into the home of your old friend!” the carrier said. “I would never have believed it of you! There was a true and frank boy once—how many years is it, Caleb, since we heard that he was dead, and had it proved, we thought? He would never have done that!”
“There was a generous friend of mine, once, a friend, who was more a father than a friend; he never would have judged a man before he heard his case. You were he. So I am certain you will hear me now.”
The carrier, with a troubled glance at Dot, replied, “Well, that’s but fair. I will.”
“You must know, then, that when I left here, a boy, I was in love, and my love was returned, but the girl was very young, and couldn’t quite make up her mind. Still I felt quite certain that she loved me as dearly as I loved her.”
“You did!” exclaimed the carrier.
“Yes; and now I am sure she did. So all through the hardships and perils of my years away, I was constantly thinking of when I should come back to her. When I landed, twenty miles from here, I heard she had bestowed herself upon another and a richer man. I did not wish to find fault with her if she had preferred him. What I wanted to find out was whether she had done this of her own free will. I wanted to judge for myself just how she felt, so I disguised myself—you know how; and waited on the road—you know where. You had no suspicion of me; neither had she,” pointing to Dot, “until I whispered in her ear at the fireside, and so startled her that she nearly betrayed me.”
“Oh, Dot!” exclaimed the carrier.
“But when she knew that Edward was alive, and had come back,” sobbed Dot, now speaking for herself, as she had long wished to do, “and when he told her why he had disguised himself, she advised him to keep his secret close, by all means; for she knew that his old friend, John Peerybingle, was too open in his nature to keep such a secret, no matter how he tried. Then she—that’s me, John—told him all, how his sweetheart had thought him dead; and how she had, after all the years, been over-persuaded by her mother, because the silly, dear, old thing called the marriage advantageous; and when she—that’s me, John—told him they were not yet married (but soon would be) and that it would be nothing but a sacrifice if it went on, for there was no love on her side; and when he went nearly wild with joy to hear it; when she—that’s me again, John—said she would help him, and carry messages to his sweetheart, as she had so often done as a girl; and she would find out what his sweetheart thought was right——”
“Oh!” said John.
“And it was right, John,” Dot continued, catching her breath, “for they were married, John, an hour ago! And here’s the bride! And Gruff and Tackleton may die a bachelor! And I’m a happy little woman. May God bless you!”
As she drew May forward and lavished all kinds of good wishes and congratulations upon her, the carrier stood confounded. As he flew towards her, Dot stretched out her hand to stop him.
“John, dear John, forgive me! It was wrong to have a secret from you. I’m very sorry. I didn’t think it any harm until the night when I came and sat down by you on the little stool. But when I looked at your face, I knew you must have seen me walking in the wareroom with Edward, and were suspicious of me. But oh, John, how could—how could you think wrong of me?”
John Peerybingle would have caught her in his arms; but no, she wouldn’t let him.
“Wait a minute, please, John dear, until you let me hear you tell me that you believe me, and trust me, and that you know how much I love you—so much that I’ll never have another secret from you; and that you’ll never, never think of sending me from my home, and yours, John, and our cricket on the hearth.”
Then you would have been delighted to see Dot run into the carrier’s arms. You may be sure the carrier was in a state of perfect rapture; and you may be sure that everybody, especially Miss Slowboy, wept for joy, and she, wishing to include the baby, handed him around to everyone in succession as if he were something to eat or drink.
But now the sound of wheels was heard again outside the door, and somebody exclaimed that Gruff and Tackleton was coming back in. Soon he appeared, looking warm and flustered.
“My, what in nation’s this, John Peerybingle!” said Tackleton. “There’s some mistake. I had an appointment with Miss Fielding to meet me at the church, and—oh, here she is!” seeing her with Edward, to whom he then turned, saying:
“I beg your pardon, sir; I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you; but if you can do me the favor to spare this young lady—she has a rather particular engagement with me this morning.”
“But I can’t spare her,” said Edward. “I couldn’t think of it.”
“What do you mean, you vagabond?” exclaimed Tackleton.
“I mean—and I pardon you for being vexed—I mean that I am as deaf to your harsh words as I was last night.”
Such a startled look as Tackleton gave him!
“It is too bad, sir,” said Edward, holding out May’s left hand, especially the third finger, “that the young lady can’t accompany you to the church; but as she has been there once this morning, perhaps you’ll excuse her.”
Tackleton looked hard at the third finger, and took a ring out of his waistcoat pocket.
“Miss Slowboy,” said Tackleton, “will you have the kindness to throw that into the fire? Thank you.”
“It was a previous engagement, quite an old engagement, that prevented my wife from keeping her appointment with you, I assure you,” said Edward.
“Mr. Tackleton will do me the justice to say that I told him about this old engagement many times, and that I never could forget it,” said May, blushing.
“Oh, certainly,” said Tackleton. “Oh, to be sure! Oh, it’s all right, it’s quite correct. You are now Mrs. Edward Plummer, I infer?”
“That’s the name,” said the bridegroom.
“Ah, I shouldn’t have known you,” said Tackleton. “I give you joy, sir.”
With these words, he hurried away, merely stopping at the gate to take the flowers and favors off the horse’s head, and to kick the horse once, just to relieve his feelings.
Of course, the next thing in order was the wedding feast; and Dot set to work with all her might, even calling in some neighborly help, and everybody, as if on the point of life or death, ran against each other in all the doorways, and round all the corners, tumbling over Tilly Slowboy and the baby everywhere.
Then there was an expedition to find Mrs. Fielding, and to apologize to her, and to bring her back, happy and forgiving. Atfirst, she would not listen at all, and wouldn’t say anything but, “Now carry me to my grave,” which seemed absurd, on account of her not being dead, or even ill.
After a while she settled down into a dreadful calm, and advantage was taken of this to get her into her coat and gloves, and carry her off to John Peerybingle’s.
When they reached the house, there were Dot’s father and mother; and May’s mother and Dot’s mother began to renew their acquaintance.
After a grand confusion of talk and action, they actually were seated at the table. To have missed that dinner would have been to have missed as good and as jolly a meal as man need eat.
After dinner, Caleb sang his song about the sparkling bowl; and, you may not believe it, but he sang it through.
And, by-the-bye, a most unexpected thing occurred just as he finished the last verse.
There was a tap at the door, and a man came staggering in with a big round box, which he set on the table in the center of the nuts and apples. He said:
“Mr. Tackleton’s compliments, and as he hasn’t got no use for the cake himself, perhaps you’ll eat it.”
And with these words, he walked off.
There was some surprise among the company, as you may imagine. Mrs. Fielding suggested that the cake might be poisoned, and told about a cake which she had heard of that had turned a seminary of young ladies blue. But, notwithstanding the story, the cake was cut by May with much ceremony and rejoicing.
I don’t think any one had tasted it, when there came another tap at the door, and the same man appeared again, having under his arm a big brown paper parcel.
“Mr. Tackleton’s compliments, and he’s sent a few toys for the baby. They ain’t ugly.”
The whole party would not have been able to find words to express their astonishment even if they had had plenty of time. But they had none, for the messenger had scarcely shut the door when there came another tap, and Tackleton himself walked in.
“Mrs. Peerybingle!” said the toy merchant, hat in hand, “I’m sorry. I’m sour by disposition, but I am going to try to do better. Caleb, I might have had you and your daughter for dear friends. As it is, my house is lonely to-night. I have not even a cricket on the hearth. I have scared them all away. Be kind to me, please; let me join this happy party!”
He was at home in five minutes. You never saw such a fellow.Whathad he been doing with himself all his life, never to have known before how much fun he had in him! Or what had the fairies been doing with him to change him so!
There was but one more living creature wanted to make the party complete, and in the twinkling of an eye, there he was, very thirsty—with hard running, for Boxer had gone all the way with the cart on its journey, and being disgusted at finding his master absent, and unable to induce the horse to come with him, had turned tail and trotted home.
There was a dance in the evening; but since the old people didn’t dance, and Dot said her dancing days were over because, I believe, she preferred to sit near the carrier really, Edward and May were the only dancers, and they got up amid great applause, to dance alone, while Bertha played her liveliest tune.
Well, if you’ll believe me, they had not been dancing five minutes, when the carrier suddenly jumps up, takes Dot round the waist, dashes out into the room, and starts off with her, toe and heel, quite wonderfully. Tackleton no sooner sees this than he skims across to Mrs. Fielding, and follows suit. Then Dot’s father and mother, and Caleb and Tilly Slowboy join in.
Hark! how the cricket joins the music with its chirp! chirp! chirp! and how the kettle hums!