"Father! Mother!"
There they stand. Mrs. Grebby in a black satin grown, a long gold chain suspended round her neck, a Paisley shawl crossed over her chest, and a close bonnet of quilted blue satin.
Mr. Grebby, with a sparse frill of grey hair growing right round his face, his chin and long upper lip guiltless of hirsute appendages. A gorgeous suit of a very baggy cut, flowered satin waistcoat, and a basket of apples and cooking pears in his hand, as a present to his daughter.
At his heels a shaggy dog, blind in one eye and toothless—one that in its puppyhood had leaped and played with Eleanor in the green fields of Copthorne Farm.
A cry of delight breaks from her, as she hugs her parents in turn, and catches sight of her old favourite.
"Rover—my darling!" she exclaims, sinking on her knees to fondle the dog.
He springs up with his muddy feet on the shoulders of her beautiful heliotrope dress. His claws catch in the lace, but she heeds them not, only laughs gleefully as he licks her face.
"We couldn't help bringing him," says Mr. Grebby, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief, which is shining and damp from excitement. "Poor follow, he did want to come! Black Bess will miss him, won't she?"
"We took it into our heads sudden like to visit London and surprise you, dearie," Mrs. Grebby vouchsafes.
"How lovely of you!" cries Eleanor, in her joy forgetting the guests by the fire, then she turns and faces them.