Martha had never seen or heard of such things. The room
was filled with them and the two big closets crammed to overflowing,
and yet a dozen trunks were not yet unpacked, including the two small
boxes holding little Ellen's clothes.

The night was one long to be remembered. Everyone said the Manor House
had not been so gay for years. And they were all there--all her old
friends and many of Jane's new ones, who for years had looked on Lucy
as one too far above them in station to be spoken of except with bated
breath.

The intimates of the house came early. Doctor John first, with his
grave manner and low voice--so perfectly dressed and quiet: Lucy
thought she had never seen his equal in bearing and demeanor, nor one
so distinguished-looking--not in any circle in Europe; and Uncle
Ephraim, grown fat and gouty, leaning on a cane, but still hearty and
wholesome, and overjoyed to see her; and Pastor Dellenbaugh--his hair
was snow-white now--and his complacent and unruffled wife; and the
others, including Captain Holt, who came in late. It was almost a
repetition of that other home-coming years before, when they had
gathered to greet her, then a happy, joyous girl just out of school.

Lucy in their honor wore the dress that had so astonished Martha, and a
diamond-studded ornament which she took from her jewel-case and
fastened in her hair. The dress followed the wonderful curves of her
beautiful body in all its dimpled plumpness and the jewel set off to
perfection the fresh, oval face, laughing blue eyes--wet forget-me-nots
were the nearest their color--piquant, upturned nose and saucy mouth.
The color of the gown, too, harmonized both with the delicate pink of
her cheeks and with the tones of her rather too full throat showing
above the string of pearls that clasped it.

Jane wore a simple gray silk gown which followed closely the slender
and almost attenuated lines of her figure. This gown the doctor always
loved because, as he told her, it expressed so perfectly the simplicity
of her mind and life. Her only jewels were her deep, thoughtful eyes,
and these, to-night, were brilliant with joy over her sister's return.

As Jane moved about welcoming her guests the doctor, whose eyes rarely
left her face, became conscious that at no time in their lives had the
contrast between the two sisters been greater.

One, a butterfly of thirty-eight, living only in the glow of the
sunlight, radiant in plumage, alighting first on on