Charles had been born since Fanny’s going away. But Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular pleasure in seeing again—though Fanny had to admit his words about a sailor with peeling skin gave her some alarm and pause.

Both were kissed very tenderly. But Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself. Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment. He came home not to stand and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise. Both boys had soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.

She had now seen all that were at home. There remained only two brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But though she had seen all the members of the family, she had not yet heard all the noise they could make.

William was soon calling out from the landing-place of the second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress for something he could not find. A key was mislaid. Betsey was accused of having got at his new hat. And some slight, but essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat was entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all talking together, but Rebecca loudest. And all was to be done in a great hurry. William tried in vain to send Betsey downstairs, to keep her from being troublesome. Since almost every door in the house was open, all this clamor was plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing. All that was missing was one loose baboon. . . .

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew how to bear it.

Within the room all was tranquil enough. Susan had disappeared with the others. There were only her father and herself remaining. And he, taking out a newspaper (borrowed from a neighbour), applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recall Fanny’s existence.

The solitary candle was held between himself and the paper, without any thought of her convenience. But she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.