She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a welcome, as—she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had she to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long lost sight of! William’s concerns must be dearest, they always had been, and he had every right.

Yet to have so little said or asked about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It pained her to have Mansfield forgotten; the dear friends who had done so much! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. The destination of the Thrush—it alone was preeminently interesting.

A day or two might shew the difference. She only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle’s house there would have been consideration, propriety, an attention towards everybody, which was not here.

The only interruption to her thoughts was from a sudden burst of her father’s. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing in the passage, he exclaimed, “Devil take those young dogs! How they are singing out! Ay, Sam’s voice louder than all the rest! That boy is fit for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I shall be after you.”

This threat was palpably disregarded. Though within five minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their being thoroughly fagged. Their hot faces and panting breaths were evidence enough, especially as they were still kicking each other’s shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under their father’s eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal.

As she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, Susan appeared torn between shewing her industriousness, and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such. “She had been into the kitchen,” she said, “to hurry Sally and help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they should have got tea, and she was sure her sister must want something after her journey.”

Fanny was very thankful. She admitted she was very glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if pleased to have the employment all to herself, and acquitted herself very well. Fanny’s spirit was as much refreshed as her body, as a result of such well-timed kindness.