Seated in old Mr Thompson’s easy-chair, with one leg stretched upon an ottoman, and the other reposing on a stool, reclined Tom Collins, looking, perhaps, a little paler than was his wont, as if still suffering from the effects of recent illness, but evidently quite happy and comfortable.
Beside Tom, on another stool, with her arm resting on Tom’s knee, and looking up in his face with a quiet smile, sat Elizabeth Thompson.
“Tom! Miss Thompson!” cried Ned Sinton, standing absolutely aghast.
Miss Thompson sprang up with a face of crimson, but Tom sat coolly still, and said, while a broad grin overspread his handsome countenance, “No, Ned, not Miss Thompson—Mrs Collins, who, I know, is rejoiced to see you.”
“You are jesting, Tom,” said Ned, as he advanced quickly, and took the lady’s hand, while Tom rose and heartily welcomed his old companions.
“Not a bit of it, my dear fellow,” he repeated. “This, I assure you, is my wife. Pray, dear Lizette, corroborate my statement, else our friends won’t believe me. But sit down, sit down, and let’s hear all about you. Go, Lizette, get ’em something to eat. I knew you would make your appearance ere long. Old Thompson’s letter—halloo! why what’s this? You’re wet! and who’s this—a wet little girl?”
“Faix, ye may well be surprised, Mister Tom,” said Larry, “for we’re all wet beggars, ivery wan o’ us—without a dollar to bless ourselves with.”
Tom Collins looked perplexed, as he turned from one to the other. “Stay,” he shouted; “wife, come here. There’s a mystery going on. Take this moist little one to your room; and there,” he added, throwing open a door, “you fellows will all find dry apparel to put on—though I don’t say to fit. Come along with me, Ned, and while you change, give an account of yourself.”
Ned did as he was desired; and, in the course of a lengthened conversation, detailed to Tom the present condition of himself and his friends.
“It’s unfortunate,” said Tom, after a pause; “ill-luck seems to follow us wherever we go.”