We got a chair out, ready for Mrs.Joe's alighting, and stirred up the fire that they might see a bright window, and took a final survey of the kitchen that nothing might be out of its place.

When we had completed these preparations, they drove up, wrapped to the eyes.

Mrs.Joe was soon landed, and Uncle Pumblechook was soon down too, covering the mare with a cloth, and we were soon all in the kitchen, carrying so much cold air in with us that it seemed to drive all the heat out of the fire.
"Now," said Mrs.Joe, unwrapping herself with haste and excitement, and throwing her bonnet back on her shoulders where it hung by the strings, "if this boy ain't grateful this night, he never will be!" I looked as grateful as any boy possibly could, who was wholly uninformed why he ought to assume that expression.
"It's only to be hoped," said my sister, "that he won't be Pompeyed.

But I have my fears." "She ain't in that line, Mum," said Mr.Pumblechook.

"She knows better." She?
I looked at Joe, making the motion with my lips and eyebrows, "She ?" Joe looked at me, making the motion with his lips and eyebrows, "She ?" My sister catching him in the act, he drew the back of his hand across his nose with his usual conciliatory air on such occasions, and looked at her.
"Well ?" said my sister, in her snappish way.