, and a delicate, home-like aroma of toast and tea
pervading it.

A slight girlish figure in a simple dress of dark blue, her bright
hair rippling away into a knot behind, was bending over the grate
toasting a piece of bread by the coals. So noiselessly had they
approached, that she heard no sound until they stood before her.

Mrs. Kensett was still looking for Benjamin's wife to appear in the
shape of a cold, grim person of imposing appearance, wearing gold
eye-glasses--when suddenly the toasting-fork was dropped, and with a
low cry of joy Marian sprang into her husband's arms; then, without
waiting for formal words of introduction, clasped loving arms about
the tired mother, and nestled a rosy face close to hers, and gave her
warm clinging kisses, such as are reserved only for our best beloved.

"Dear mother," she said, "I am so glad you have come! You are cold;
sit right here," and she wheeled a large chair into the warmest
corner, and with her own hands removed the wrappings and carried them
away. "I wanted to have the toast just the right brown, so I was
doing it myself," she explained, as she took up her toasting-fork and
went on with her work, and the old mother sat and feasted her eyes on
the pretty picture--the bright, happy face, the quick, graceful
movements, as she dexterously put last little touches to the table,
chatting pleasantly meanwhile, making tender inquiries about her
health and her journey. Mrs. Kensett began already to feel as if this
was a dear daughter separated from her years ago and now restored.
"It seemed just as if I had been away visiting and got home again,"
she told someone afterward.

After tea and resting, they both went with her in merry procession to
her room, carrying shawls and satchel, and waiting with the eager joy
of two children to see how she liked everything. She would have been
hard to suit if she had not liked it. The room was a large, pleasant
one, with a sunny bay window, a stand of plants, a case of books, and
every other thing that she could possibly need or desire.

Mrs. Kensett started as her eye fell on familiar objects; there was
the claw-footed mahogany centre-table with antique carvings, her
straight-backed old rocker, and "father's" dear arm-chair, both newly
cushioned, and otherwise brightened up. The sofa, too, of ancient
pattern, that had stood in her parlour at Hawthorn for forty years,
looked like an old friend in a new dress. Benjamin had ransacked al