“Tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten minutes,” replied Mr Twitter with reckless hilarity.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, my boy, here’s your toggery,” said the irrepressible father, hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle—“your best suit, Sammy; the one you used to wear only on Sundays, you extravagant fellow.”
Sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him. His father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress, finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was immediately re-enveloped by Mrs Twitter.
He was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed.
Next morning early—before breakfast—Mrs Twitter assembled all the little Twitters, and put them on chairs in a row—according to order, for Mrs Twitter’s mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. They ranged from right to left thus:—
Molly, Willie, Fred, Lucy, and Alice—with Alice’s doll on a doll’s chair at the left flank of the line.
“Now children,” said Mrs Twitter, sitting down in front of the row with an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very small and their eyes very large—in which respect they brought themselves into wonderful correspondence with Alice’s doll. “Now children, your dear brother Sammy has come home.”
“Oh! how nice! Where has he been? What has he seen? Why has he been away so long? How jolly!” were the various expressions with which the news was received.
“Silence.”