"Oh, Luke, you're so good, and you'll like the Crispins, and Charles 'll like you—and—and—isn't the world beautiful to-day, Luke?"
In a cosy little parlor, at the top of a London stair, a dozen persons were chatting together. The sounds of wind and rain upon the casement only served to increase the warmth and brightness of the snug apartment.
Everybody seemed in the highest spirits, and finally one of the guests, a man whom the others called "Southey," turned gayly to the hostess and inquired with the ease of old friendship,—
"My good lady, when are we to have our supper? Please remember that Wordsworth and I have journeyed all the way from Keswick solely for the delight of supping with you. Do you realize that eleven o'clock has come and gone?"
Mary Lamb laughed merrily, but shook her head with decision.
"Fifteen minutes more you must wait, so curb your hunger as best you can. The guest of honor has not yet arrived, and when he comes, you will all agree, I am sure, that it would be worth while to delay supper until to-morrow, if only we might have him with us."
"A mystery! A mystery!" cried the visitors, and thereupon they began to ply Miss Mary's brother with questions as to who the expected personage might be.
To all these, the young host gave jovial but vague replies, exchanging with his sister frequent nods and smiles over their heads.
Presently there sounded a quick step on the stair, and Charles Lamb threw open the door, shouting joyfully,—