"I am quite sure," said Alice, "Arthur would not have such a friend."

Mr. Weston smiled, and looked out again at home. They were rapidly
approaching the gates, and a crowd of little darkies were holding them open
on each side. "I wish Arthur were here," said he. "How long he has been
away! I associate him with every object about the place."

Alice did not answer; Arthur was in her thoughts. This was his home, every
object with which she was surrounded breathed of him. She had thought of it
as her home, but she had no right here--she was really only a guest. The
thought was new and painful to her. Could the whole of her past existence
have been dreamed away?--had she indeed no claim to the place she loved
best on earth--was she dependant on the will of others for all the gay and
joyous emotions that a few moments before filled her breast? She thought
again of Arthur, of his handsome appearance, his good and generous heart,
his talents, and his unchanging love to her--of Walter, and of all with
which he had had to contend in the springtime of his life. Of his faults,
his sin, and his banishment; of his love to her, too, and the delusion
under which she had labored, of her returning it. Arthur would, ere long,
know it all, and though he might forgive, her proud spirit rebelled at the
idea that he would also blame.

She looked at her uncle, whose happy face was fixed on the home of his
youth and his old age--a sense of his protecting care and affection came
over her. What might the short summer bring? His displeasure, too--then
there would be no more for her, but to leave Exeter with all its happiness.

Poor child! for, at nearly nineteen, Alice was only a child. The
possibility overpowered her, she leant against her uncle's bosom, and wept
suddenly and violently.

"Alice, what is the matter?" said her mother. "Are you ill?"

"What _is_ the matter?" said her uncle, putting his arm around her, and
looking alarmed.

"Nothing at all," said Alice, trying to control herself. "I was only
thinking of all your goodness to me, and how I love you."

"Is that all," said Mr. Weston, pressing her more closely to his bosom.
"Why, the sight of home has turned your little head. Come, dry up your
tears, for my old eyes can distinguish the hall door, and the servants
about the house collecting to meet us."

"I can see dear Cousin Janet, standing within--how happy she will be," said
Mrs. Weston.

"Well," said Ellen, "I hope Abel wi