The visit of the Lethbridges to Parksides was an event of great importance. Neither Uncle Leth, Fanny nor Bob had ever been there, and it was five or six years since Aunt Leth had set foot in it. Of all the family she was the only one who would have been able to recognize Miser Farebrother, and to say, "That is Phœbe's father." Nearly twenty years had elapsed since Uncle Leth had seen the miser, and he was rather doubtful as to how he would be received, their last meeting not having been a pleasant one. Fanny was very curious and very nervous; Phœbe's father was a solemn mysterious personage, a being apart, whose acquaintance she was now for the first time to make. What kind of looking gentleman was he? Their albums contained the portraits of all their friends and relations, near and distant, some from infancy upward; but the portrait of Miser Farebrother found no place therein. It is doubtful, indeed, whether he had ever had his portrait taken; certainly there was none extant. Even Phœbe did not possess one. It had been a tacit arrangement among the Lethbridge's not to refer in general conversation to Phœbe's father, and to Bob and Fanny he was an utter stranger in fact and sentiment. But now that they were to be brought into contact with him, he became an object of immediate interest to them.
"What shall we call him?" said Fanny to Bob. "Of course he is our uncle, and we ought to call him Uncle Farebrother."
Bob professed not to care—in which he was not ingenuous. "All that I've heard about him," he said, "is that he is known as Miser Farebrother."
"It won't do to call him that," said Fanny; "he would be offended, and might fly out at us. Ought I to kiss him?"
"Wait till you're asked," replied Bob. "He must be immensely rich."
"More shame for him," said Fanny indignantly, "to keep Phœbe as short as he does. What does he do with all his money?"
"Wraps it up in old stockings, buries it, hides it in the chimneys, carries it in bags round his waist, stuffs his mattress with it. There was a miser found dead in a garret in Lambeth the other day, and though there wasn't a crust of bread in the room, they found four thousand pounds hidden away in teapots, mouse-traps, nightcaps, old boots and all sorts of rum places. He used to go about begging, and would snatch a bone from a dog."
"Miserable wretch!" cried Fanny. "I hope Uncle Farebrother isn't like that."
"Not exactly, I should say; but quite bad enough. He hasn't treated us very handsomely."
"Well, never mind," said Fanny. "We don't go to see him; we are going for Phœbe's sake."