The little lord slept all night through, in spite of the squeezing, and the horn-blowing, and the widow; and he looked as fresh as paint (and, indeed; pronounced himself to be so) when the Major, with a yellow face, a bristly beard, a wig out of curl, and strong rheumatic griefs shooting through various limbs of his uneasy body, descended at the little lodge-gate at Fairoaks, where the porteress and gardener's wife reverentially greeted him, and, still more respectfully, Mr.Morgan, his man.
Helen was on the look-out for this expected guest, and saw him from her window.

But she did not come forward immediately to greet him.

She knew the Major did not like to be seen at a surprise, and required a little preparation before he cared to be visible.

Pen, when a boy, had incurred sad disgrace by carrying off from the Major's dressing-table a little morocco box, which it must be confessed contained the Major's back teeth, which he naturally would leave out of his jaws in a jolting mail-coach, and without which he would not choose to appear.

Morgan, his man, made a mystery of mystery of his wigs: curling them in private places: introducing them mysteriously to his master's room;--nor without his head of hair would the Major care to show himself to any member of his family, or any acquaintance.