“Oh, Mr. Toosypegs, I’m so glad to see you,” said Erminie, putting her little snow-flake of a hand out of the window to greet him. “How do you do, and how is Miss Priscilla?”
“Thanky, Miss Minnie,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a dejected tone. “I ain’t well at all. I’m very much obliged to you, and aunt Prisciller—well, the old gander broke his leg this morning, and she ain’t—well, she ain’t in as good spirits as she might be. Miss Minnie, you ain’t going to be long away, are you?”
“That does not depend on me now, Mr. Toosypegs,” said Erminie, smiling. “You know I have got a father and mother to take care of me now.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Toosypegs, mournfully; “it’s going to be horrid lonesome when you are gone; I know it is. I wish I had never been born! I declare to goodness I do! People may say what they like, but I don’t see where’s the good of it,” said Mr. Toosypegs, with a subdued howl.
“Come, Horlander! take things easy,” suggested Ranty, poking his head out through the opposite window. “Care killed a cat.”
“It’s all very well to say, ‘take things easy,’ Master Ranty,” said Mr. Toosypegs, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his coat-sleeve; “but if you were in my place—in love—a—I mean going to part with Miss Minnie, and never see her again, I don’t see how you could take it easy either. I dare say you mean real well in telling me so, Master Ranty, but I can’t do it at all. Good-by, Miss Minnie,” said poor Mr. Toosypegs, sobbing outright. “I don’t expect ever to see you again in this world—my feelings are in that state that I will soon be a melancholy corpse. I know very well I will.”
“Oh, Mr. Toosypegs, I hope not; you only think so. Give my love to Miss Priscilla, and tell her I’ll send her a new shawl from Baltimore. Good-by.” And with a smile, Erminie fell back, and the carriage drove on, unhappy O. C. Toosypegs wiping his eyes, and snuffling, in the middle of the road.
Nothing of any importance occurred during the remainder of the journey. The whole party arrived safely in the city, and were domesticated with the friend in whose house the earl and countess were staying.
The duty of informing Rita of her new-found parentage devolved upon Lady Maude. In the gentlest and kindest manner possible, she performed her task; and great was the astonishment and greater the mortification of the supercilious little lady on learning who she really was. “Some natural tears she shed;” but when the countess informed her she was still to reside with them as before, and not being completely selfish after all, she consented at last to wipe them, and met her mother with quite a decent show of affection. Poor Marguerite! she clasped the little gilded, glittering butterfly to her breast, and wept over her with a passionate love that touched every heart. There was a perceptible coldness and jealousy in the dainty little lady’s greeting of Erminie, whom she looked upon as a rival and natural enemy; but the gentleness and sweetness of the new-found heiress were not to be resisted; and before they all separated for the night Lady Rita made up her mind that matters were, after all, by no means so bad as she had at first supposed.
Ray passed a week with the family in Baltimore, and then returned to Judestown—on business, he said, but as more than one of the party shrewdly guessed, to see Pet. He found her worthy father at home, and unbounded was the astonishment of that most upright gentleman upon learning all that had transpired during his absence. Inwardly he rejoiced at the annihilation of the gang of smugglers, and fervently thanked his stars that his own connection with them had not been discovered.