A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was more or less rare⁠—the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher, accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter’s wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless and full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too⁠—he could not meet Amy Lawrence’s eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But when he saw this small newcomer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment. The next moment he was “showing off” with all his might⁠—cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces⁠—in a word, using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause. His exaltation had but one alloy⁠—the memory of his humiliation in this angel’s garden⁠—and that record in sand was fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now.