At this moment a combination of prodigious sounds was heard outside, and a good-humored, comely woman of some fifty years of age, or thereabouts, came running in, closely followed by the marrow-bones and cleavers and the bells—not the Bells, but a portable collection on a frame.
Trotty said: "It's Mrs. Chickenstalker!" And sat down and beat his knees again.
"Married, and not tell me, Meg!" cried the good woman. "Never! I couldn't rest on the last night of the Old Year without coming to wish you joy. I couldn't have done it, Meg. Not if I had been bed-ridden. So here I am."
"Mrs. Tugby," said Trotty, who had been going round and round her in an ecstasy—"I should say Chickenstalker—bless your heart and soul! A happy New Year, and many of 'em! Mrs. Tugby," said Trotty, when he had saluted her—"I should say Chickenstalker—this is William Fern and Lilian."
The worthy dame, to his surprise, turned very pale and very red.
"Not Lilian Fern, whose mother died in Dorsetshire?" said she.
Her uncle answered "Yes," and meeting hastily they exchanged some hurried words together, of which the upshot was that Mrs. Chickenstalker shook him by both hands, saluted Trotty on his cheek again of her own free will, and took the child to her capacious breast.
"Will Fern," said Trotty, pulling on his right-hand muffler. "Not the friend that you was hoping to find?"
"Ay," returned Will, putting a hand on each of Trotty's shoulders. "And like to prove a'most as good a friend, if that can be, as one I found."
"O!" said Trotty. "Please to play up there. Will you have the goodness?"