“My dear, dear anxious friend,”—said she, in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, “always overcareful for everybody’s comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.” The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. “ ’Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time tomorrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon.”
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father— Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank’s being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprise, introduction, and pleasure.
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her—he was presented to her, and she