each other, what should
be the first words to pass between them. The half-dreaded,
half-looked-for moment had come, and the greeting was of the tritest.

"We have arrived, you see," said Mrs. Comerford. "We caught the Irish
Mail last night instead of staying the night in London."

"Oh,--did no one meet you?"

"We left the luggage and came up on Farrell's car. It _was_ Farrell's
car, just as muddy and disreputable as I remember it. It was driven by
old Johnny's son. I am sorry Johnny is dead. Perhaps the car is not
the same--but there is nothing to choose between that and the old one."

The meeting had taken place. The great moment had come and gone: and
there was Aunt Grace talking about Farrell's car as though all that lay
between them had been but a dream.

Lady O'Gara's eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"Ah, you are tired," she said with soft tenderness, "you are tired!"

The change the years had wrought in the tall handsome woman who had
been queenly to her young mind overwhelmed her. She forgot the dread
she had had of the meeting, which had destroyed any happy anticipation.
"Come and sit down," she said. "Let me help you off with your cloak.
You will have breakfast? What a long journey for you!"

Mrs. Comerford allowed herself to be put into the softest of the easy
chairs. A look of gratification, of pleasure, came to her face. She
allowed Lady O'Gara to take off her hat and long travelling cloak, to
unlace her shoes.

"You were always a kind creature," she said, "and it is nice to be home
again. How beautiful the cloudy skies are! Many and many a time
during those years I have wanted grey skies. I've been sick even for a
whole wet day. Do you think, Mary, that if we Westerners get to Heaven
we will want a wet day now and again?"

So the old resentment had gone. How strange it was after all the grief
and estrangement to have Aunt Grace talking like this. It encouraged
Lady O'Gara, sitting on the floor at Mrs. Comerford's feet, to pat the
foot from which she had drawn off the shoe, with a tender furtive
caress.

"You'd better get up, Mary. I hear Clinch coming. You have hardly
changed from the girl of twenty-five years ago. Of course you are
plumper, more matronly. You have a boy of twenty-one."

Clinch came in with the bag, followed by Mrs. Clinch with a tea-tray,
smiling broadly.

"The young lady said she'd have a bath before her breakfast, ma'am,"
she said, and there was a r