nd Todd is with him. And yes! Why of course it's
Rutter! See him clear that curb! Not a man in this county can drive like
that but Talbot."

Round they come--the colonel straight as a whip--dusty-brown
overcoat, flowers in his buttonhole--bell-crowned hat, brown driving
gloves--perfectly appointed, even if he is a trifle pale and half blind.
More horn--a long joyous note now, as if they were heralding the peace
of the world, the colonel bowing like a grand duke as he passes the
assembled crowd--a gathering of the reins together, a sudden pull-up
at Seymours', everybody on the front porch--Kate peeping over Harry's
shoulder--and last and best of all, St. George's cheery voice ringing
out:

"Where are you two sweethearts!" Not a weak note anywhere; regular
fog-horn of a voice blown to help shipwrecked mariners.

"All aboard for Moorlands, you turtle-doves--never mind your clothes,
Kate--nor you either, Harry. Your father will send for them later. Up
with you."

"All true, Harry," called back the colonel from the top of the coach
(nobody alighted but the grooms--there wasn't time--) "Your mother
wouldn't wait another hour and sent me for you, and Teackle said St.
George could go, and we bundled him up and brought him along and you are
all going to stay a month. No, don't wait a minute, Kate; I want to get
home before dark. One of my men will be in with the carryall and bring
out your mammy and your clothes and whatever you want. Your father is
away I hear, and so nobody will miss you. Get your heavy driving coat,
my dear; I brought one of mine in for Harry--it will be cold before we
get home. Matthew, your eyes are better than mine, get down and see
what the devil is the matter with that horse. No, it's all right--the
check-rein bothered him."

And so ended the day that had been so happily begun, and the night was
no less joyful with the mother's arms about her beloved boy and Kate
on a stool beside her and Talbot and St. George deep in certain
vintages--or perhaps certain vintages deep in Talbot and St.
George--especially that particular and peculiar old Madeira of 1800,
which his friend Mr. Jefferson had sent him from Monticello, and which
was never served except to some such distinguished guest as his highly
esteemed and well-beloved friend of many years, St. George Wilmot Temple
of Kennedy Square.

CHAPTER XXXI

It would be delightful to describe the happy days at Moorlands during
St. George's conva