heir mothers knew, of course, and so did the older men,
and all were pleased over the news. Those of them who remembered the
happy, joyous girl with her merry eyes and ringing laugh were ready to
give her a hearty welcome; they felt complimented that the
distinguished lady--fifteen years' residence abroad and a rich husband
had gained her this position--should be willing to exchange the great
Paris for the simple life of Warehold. It touched their civic pride.

Great preparations were accordingly made. Billy Tatham's successor (his
son)--in his best open carriage--was drawn up at the station, and
Lucy's drive through the village with some of her numerous boxes
covered with foreign labels piled on the seat beside the young man--who
insisted on driving Lucy and the child himself--was more like the
arrival of a princess revisiting her estates than anything else. Martha
and Archie and Jane filled the carriage, with little Ellen on Archie's
lap, and more than one neighbor ran out of the house and waved to them
as they drove through the long village street and turned into the gate.

Archie threw his arms around Lucy when he saw her, and in his open,
impetuous way called her his "dear aunty," telling her how glad he was
that she had come to keep his good mother from getting so sad at times,
and adding that she and granny had not slept for days before she came,
so eager were they to see her. And Lucy kissed him in return, but with
a different throb at her heart. She felt a thrill when she saw how
handsome and strong he was, and for an instant there flashed through
her a feeling of pride that he was her own flesh and blood. Then there
had come a sudden revulsion, strangling every emotion but the one of
aversion--an aversion so overpowering that she turned suddenly and
catching Ellen in her arms kissed her with so lavish a display of
affection that those at the station who witnessed the episode had only
praise for the mother's devotion. Jane saw the kiss Lucy had given
Archie, and a cry of joy welled up in her heart, but she lost the
shadow that followed. My lady of Paris was too tactful for that.

Her old room was all ready. Jane, with Martha helping, had spent days
in its preparation. White dimity curtains starched stiff as a petticoat
had been hung at the windows; a new lace cover spread on the little
mahogany, brass-mounted dressing-table--her great grandmother's, in
fact--with its tiny swinging mirror and the two drawers (M