ant friends in school, but after all her happiest hours had
been spent in the Terrace, where a year ago life had promised to be so
dull.

Aunt Virginia joined her presently, dropping into a chair with a sigh
of satisfaction. "It is good to be at home again, and Martha and I
have everything put away," she said. "Where have you been?"

"Over to see Miss Marion, but Mrs. Leigh came in and I didn't care to
stay."

Miss Virginia rocked briskly for some minutes, then she remarked,
"There was something in your Aunt Caroline's last letter I did not
understand." Taking it from the envelope she unfolded it and glanced
down the page. "Here it is. 'I infer from certain hints you have
dropped at different times that you have not taken my advice in regard
to the shop--' I didn't hint, I only said--" Miss Virginia hesitated.
She did not recall just what she had said, but she knew she had by no
means revealed the true extent of her intimacy with the shopkeepers.
She went on with the letter. "'I have lately received some first-hand
information concerning these young women, who seem to have fulfilled
my prophecy that they would lose no opportunity to ingratiate
themselves. I fear you have been too credulous, my dear Virginia, but
I will not enter into the matter further till I see you.'

"I wonder what she means by 'first-hand information'?" said Miss
Virginia. "I know Caroline will never feel as the rest of us do, but
she can't know anything against them."

"No, indeed," Charlotte cried. "There isn't anything about Miss
Marion, or Miss Norah either, that is not lovely."

The thought of Marion's caress returned, and with it the question
whether she should tell Cousin Frank or not; for it occurred to her he
might think her officious to have spoken of the matter to a stranger.
If-- Charlotte became lost in thought again.

A good many miles to the northward two gentlemen were dining together
at the very hour when Miss Virginia and Charlotte sat on the porch and
watched the sunset without thinking of it.

"You have great reason to be pleased with the reviews of your book,
Frank," the elder man remarked, gratified affection in the grave smile
with which his gaze rested on his son.

"Yes, for the most part the critics are kind," Francis Landor replied,
drawing hieroglyphics in an absent manner on the cloth with the handle
of his spoon.

"But one thing is lacking," thought the father, his glance still
resting on the bent head. "The