“Not arrived yet! why, I feared they would have been here before me, and thought me so unkind,” said Leah, after affectionately greeting her mother. “Are we not late?”
“Dreadfully!” replied Simeon, mischievously. “Mrs. Valentine said you were at liberty after five; what have you been doing with yourselves?”
“Taking a walk, and went further than we thought,” said Maurice, with affected carelessness, while Leah turned away with a blush.
“A walk! whew,” and Simon gave a prolonged whistle; “were you not cold?”
“Cold, you stupid fellow! why it is scarce autumn yet—the evenings are delightful.”
“Particularly when the subject of conversation is of a remarkably summer warmth; with doves billing and cooing in the trees, and nightingales singing to the rose—there, am I not poetical? Leah, my girl, you used to like poetry; you ought to like it better now.”
“Better—why?”
“Oh, because—because poetry and love are twin brothers, you know!”
“Simeon!” remonstrated Leah; but the pleased expression of young Carvalho’s face and the satisfaction beaming on the widow’s betrayed at once that the bachelor was quite at liberty to talk and amuse himself at their expense; their love was acknowledged to each other, and hallowed by a parent’s blessing and consent.
Joseph had scarcely had time to tell his joyful tale to his sister, before a loud shout from Simeon, who had gone to the front to watch, proclaimed the anxiously-desired arrivals. Joseph and Maurice darted out, and in less than a minute Reuben and Sarah entered the parlour.