And then the bridegroom, Squire John! Where was he, and what had become of the old Nabob? Could any one have recognized him? Was this merry, sprightly, leaping, smiling, triumphant creature the same man? Why, he had grown twenty years younger at the very least! It was a changeling, surely!
"To-morrow, then, in the afternoon," said he, with a voice that trembled for joy.
"Yes, to-morrow," replied Fanny. Their eyes flashed with a strange fire as they looked at each other.
Thereupon Squire John rushed to his carriage, opened the door himself, without waiting for Palko to let down the steps, and, turning round, shouted once more, "To-morrow afternoon!"
"Hush, hush!" said Fanny, putting her index-finger to her pretty little lips.
"Drive into Pressburg!" cried Squire John with impatient celerity, while Palko clambered up on to the box from whence he phlegmatically looked down upon his master.
"What are you staring at, sirrah? Drive on, I say."
"We have left something behind here," said the old servant.
"What have we left behind, eh?"
"Twenty years of your age, my honoured young sir," replied Palko, without the suspicion of a smile.