he
leisurely rising of a boulevarded slope and--home.

They turned in at a white gate in the centre of a long fence backed by
trees. The Spences had built their homestead in days when land was
plentiful and, being a liberal-minded race, they had taken of it what
they would. Of all the houses in Bainbridge theirs alone was prodigal
of space. It stood aloof in its own grounds, its face turned
negligently from the street, outside. For the passer-by it had no
welcome; it kept itself, its flowers and its charm, for its own people.

Desire said "Oh," as she saw it--long and white, with green shutters
and deep verandas and wide, unhurried steps. She had seen many
beautiful homes but she had never seen "home" before. The beauty and
the peace of it caught the breath in her throat. She was glad that
Benis did not speak as he gave her his hand from the car. She was glad
for the volubility of Aunt Caroline and for the preoccupation of Dr.
John with his engine. She was glad that she and Benis stepped info the
cool, dim hall alone. In the dimness she could just see the little,
nervous smile upon his lips and the warm and kindly look in his steady
eyes.

After that first moment, the picture blurred a little with the bustle
of arrival. Aunt Caroline, large and light in her cream dust-coat,
seemed everywhere. The dimness fled before her and rooms and stairs and
a white-capped maid emerged. The rooms confused Desire, there were so
many of them and all with such a strong family likeness of dark
furniture and chintz. Aunt Caroline called them by their names and,
throwing open their doors, announced them in prideful tones. Desire
felt very diffident, they were such exclusive rooms, so old and settled
and sure of themselves--and she was so new. They might, she felt,
cold-shoulder her entirely. It was touch and go.

All but one room!

"This," said her conductor, throwing open a door, "is where Benis does
his work. He calls it his den. But you will agree that library sounds
better."

Desire went in--with the other rooms she had been content to stand in
the doors--and, as she entered, the room seemed to draw round and
welcome her. It was deeply and happily familiar--that shallow, rounded
window from which one could lean and touch the grass outside, that
dark, old desk with its leather and brass, that blue bowl on the corner
of the mantel-piece, the lazy, yet expectant, chairs; even the beech
tree whose light fingers tapped upon the wind