.

THE BREWING OF THE STORM.
Time had lavishly added to Mrs.Peckover's size, but had generously taken little or nothing from her in exchange.

Her hair had certainly turned grey since the period when Valentine first met her at the circus; but the good-humored face beneath was just as hearty to look at now, as ever it had been in former days.

Her cheeks had ruddily expanded; her chin had passed from the double to the triple stage of jovial development--any faint traces of a waist which she might formerly have possessed were utterly obliterated--but it was pleasantly evident, to judge only from the manner of her bustling entry into Mrs.Blyth's room, that her active disposition had lost nothing of its early energy, and could still gaily defy all corporeal obstructions to the very last.
Nodding and smiling at Mr.and Mrs.Blyth, and Zack, till her vast country bonnet trembled aguishly on her head, the good woman advanced, shaking every moveable object in the room, straight to the tea-table, and enfolded Madonna in her capacious arms.

The girl's light figure seemed to disappear in a smothering circumambient mass of bonnet ribbons and unintelligible drapery, as Mrs.Peckover saluted her with a rattling fire of kisses, the report of which was audible above the voluble talking of Mr.Blyth and the boisterous laughter of Zack.
"I'll tell you all about how I came here directly, sir; only I couldn't help saying how-d'ye-do in the old way to little Mary to begin with," said Mrs.Peckover apologetically.