and she had always heard that he was a very
handsome young man. Something of the
same kind perplexed Miss Matey at tea–time,
when she was installed in the great easy
chair opposite to Mr. Jenkyns's, in order to
gaze her fill. She could hardly drink for
looking at him; and as for eating, that was
out of the question.

"I suppose hot climates age people very
quickly," said she, almost to herself. "When
you left Cranford you had not a gray hair in
your head."

"But how many years ago is that?" said
Mr. Peter, smiling.

"Ah! true! yes! I suppose you and I
are getting old. But still I did not think we
were so very old! But white hair is very
becoming to you, Peter," she continued, a
little afraid lest she had hurt him by revealing
how his appearance had impressed her.

"I suppose I forgot dates too, Matey, for
what do you think I have brought for you from
India? I have an Indian muslin gown and a
pearl necklace for you somewhere or other in
my chest at Portsmouth." He smiled as if
amused at the idea of the incongruity of his
presents with the appearance of his sister;
but this did not strike her all at once, while
the elegance of the articles did. I could see
that for a moment her imagination dwelt
complacently on the idea of herself thus
attired; and instinctively she put her hand
up to her throat—that little delicate throat
which (as Miss Pole had told me) had been
one of her youthful charms; but the hand
met the touch of folds of soft muslin, in which
she was always swathed up to her chin; and
the sensation recalled a sense of the
unsuitableness of a pearl necklace to her age.
She said, "I'm afraid I'm too old; but it
was very kind of you to think of it. They
are just what I should have liked years ago—
when I was young!"

"So I thought, my little Matey. I remembered
your tastes; they were so like my dear
mother's." At the mention of that name, the
brother and sister clasped each other's hands
yet more fondly; and although they were
perfectly silent I fancied they might have
something to say if they were unchecked by
my presence, and I got up to arrange my
room for Mr. Peter's occupation that night,
intending myself to share Miss Matey's bed.
But at my movement he started up. "I must
go and settle about a room at the George.
My carpet–bag is there too."

''No!" said Miss Matey in great distress
—"you must not go; please, dear Peter—
pray, Mary—oh! you must not go!" She
was so much agitated that we both promised
everything she wished. Peter sat down
again, and gave her his hand, which for better
security she held in both of hers, and I left
the room to accomplish my arrangements.

Long, long into the night, far, far into the
morning, did Miss Matey and I talk. She
had much to tell me of her brother's life and
adventures which he had communicated to
her, as they had sat alone. She said that all
was thoroughly clear to her; but I never
quite understood the whole story, and when
in after days I lost my awe of Mr. Peter
enough to question him myself, he laughed at
my curiosity and told me stories that sounded
so very much like Baron Munchausen's that
I was sure he was making fun of me. What
I heard from Miss Matey was that he had
been a volunteer at the siege of Rangoon, had
been taken prisoner by the Burmese; had
somehow obtained favour and eventual freedom
from knowing how to bleed the chief of
the small tribe in some case of dangerous
illness; that on his release from years of
captivity he had had his letters returned from
England with the ominous word "Dead"
marked upon them; and, believing himself
to be the last of his race, he had settled down
as an indigo planter; and had proposed to
spend the remainder of his life in the country
to whose inhabitants and modes of life he had
become habituated; when my letter had
reached him; and with the odd vehemence
which characterised him in age as it had done
in youth, he had sold his land and all his
possessions to the first purchaser, and come
home to the poor old sister, who was more
glad and rich than any princess when she
looked at him. She talked me to sleep at
last, and then I was awakened by a slight
sound at the door, for which she begged my
pardon as she crept penitently into bed; but
it seems that when I could no longer confirm
her belief that the long–lost was really here
—under the same roof—she had begun to
fear lest it was only a waking dream of hers;
that there never had been a Peter sitting by
her all that blessed evening—but that the real
Peter lay dead far away beneath some wild
sea–wave, or under some strange Eastern tree.
And so strong had this nervous feeling of
hers become that she was fain to get up and
go and convince herself that he was really
there by listening through the door to his
even regular breathing—I don't like to call
it snoring, but I heard it myself through two
closed doors—and by and bye it soothed Miss
Matey to sleep.

I don't believe Mr. Peter came home
from India as rich as a Nabob; he even
considered himself poor, but neither he nor
Miss Matey cared much about that. At
any rate he had enough to live upon "very
genteelly" at Cranford; he and Miss Matey
together. And a day or two after his
arrival the shop was closed, while troops
of little urchins gleefully awaited the
showers of comfits and lozenges that came
from time to time down upon their faces as
they stood up–gazing at Miss Matey's drawing–
room windows. Occasionally Miss Matey
would say to them (half hidden behind the
curtains), "My dear children, don't make
yourselves ill;" but a strong arm pulled her
back, and a more rattling shower than ever