sale. Altogether, the lozenge trade,
conducted on these principles, did not promise
to be remunerative; but I was happy to find
she had made more than twenty pounds
during the last year by her sales of tea; and,
moreover, that now she was accustomed to it,
she did not dislike the employment, which
brought her into kindly intercourse with
many of the people round about. If she gave
them good weight they, in their turn, brought
many a little country present to the "old
rector's daughter;"—a cream cheese, a few
new–laid eggs, a little fresh ripe fruit, a
bunch of flowers; the counter was quite
loaded with these offerings sometimes, as she
told me.

As for Cranford in general, it was going on
much as usual. The Jamieson and Hoggins
feud still raged, if a feud it could be called,
when only one side cared much about
it. Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins were very happy
together; and, like most very happy people,
quite ready to be friendly: indeed, Mrs.
Hoggins was really desirous to be restored to
Mrs. Jamieson's good graces, because of the
former intimacy. But Mrs. Jamieson
considered their very happiness an insult to the
Glenmire family, to which she had still the
honour to belong; and she doggedly refused
and rejected every advance. Mr. Mulliner,
like a faithful clansman, espoused his mistress's
side with ardour. If he saw either Mr. or
Mrs. Hoggins, he would cross the street, and
appear absorbed in the contemplation of life
in general, and his own path in particular,
until he had passed them by. Miss Pole used
to amuse herself with wondering what in the
world Mrs. Jamieson would do if either she
or Mr. Mulliner, or any other member of her
household was taken ill; she could hardly
have the face to call in Mr. Hoggins after the
way she had behaved to them. Miss Pole
grew quite impatient for some indisposition
or accident to befall Mrs. Jamieson or her
dependants, in order that Cranford might see
how she would act under the perplexing
circumstances.

Martha was beginning to go about again,
and I had already fixed a limit, not very far
distant, to my visit, when one afternoon, as I
was sitting in the shop–parlour with Miss
Matey—I remember the weather was colder
now than it had been in May, three weeks
before, and we had a fire, and kept the door
fully closed—we saw a gentleman go slowly
past the window, and then stand opposite to
the door, as if looking out for the name which
we had so carefully hidden; he took out a
double eye–glass and peered about for some
time before he could discover it. Then he
came in. And, all on a sudden, it flashed
across me that it was the Aga himself! For
his clothes had an out–of–the–way foreign cut
about them; and his face was deep brown
as if tanned and re–tanned by the sun. His
complexion contrasted oddly with his plentiful
snow–white hair; his eyes were dark and
piercing, and he had an odd way of contracting
them, and puckering up his cheeks into
innumerable wrinkles when he looked earnestly
at objects. He did so to Miss Matey when
he first came in. His glance had first
caught and lingered a little upon me; but
then turned, with the peculiar searching
look I have described, to Miss Matey. She
was a little fluttered and nervous, but no
more so than she always was when any man
came into her shop. She thought that he
would probably have a note or a sovereign
at least, for which she should have to give
change, which was an operation she very
much disliked to perform. But the present
customer stood opposite to her, without
asking for anything, only looking fixedly at
her as he drummed upon the table with his
fingers, just for all the world as Miss Jenkyns
used to do. Miss Matey was on the point of
asking him what he wanted (as she told me
afterwards), when he turned sharp to me.
"Is your name Mary Smith?"

"Yes!" said I.

All my doubts as to his identity were
set at rest; and, I only wondered what he
would say or do next, and how Miss Matey
would stand the joyful shock of what he had
to reveal. Apparently he was at a loss how
to announce himself; for he looked round at
last in search of something to buy, so as to
gain time; and, as it happened, his eye
caught on the almond comfits, and he boldly
asked for a pound of "those things." I doubt
if Miss Matey had a whole pound in the
shop; and besides the unusual magnitude of
the order, she was distressed with the idea
of the indigestion they would produce, taken
in such unlimited quantities. She looked up
to remonstrate. Something of tender relaxation
in his face struck home to her heart.
She said, "Is it—oh, sir! can you be Peter?"
and trembled from head to foot. In a moment
he was round the table, and had her in his
arms, sobbing the tearless cries of old age.
I brought her a glass of wine; for indeed her
colour had changed so as to alarm me, and
Mr. Peter, too. He kept saying, "I have
been too sudden for you, Matey, I have, my
little girl."

I proposed that she should go at once up
into the drawing–room and lie down on the
sofa there; she looked wistfully at her
brother, whose hand she had held tight, even
when nearly fainting; but on his assuring
her that he would not leave her, she allowed
him to carry her upstairs. I thought that
the best I could do, was to run and put the
kettle on the fire for early tea, and then to
attend to the shop, leaving the brother and
sister to exchange some of the many thousand
things they must have to say. I had also to
break the news to Martha, who received it
with a burst of tears, which nearly infected
me. She kept recovering herself to ask if I
was sure it was indeed Miss Matey's brother;
for I had mentioned that he had gray hair,