“You are right, Kate, it must be he,” said she, glancing through the window, and then following me quietly down stairs.

The carriage stopped, and we all went down the steps to receive our long absent relative.  A tall, pale gentleman in black sprang out and came hurriedly towards us.  He looked much older than I had expected; but the next instant the flash of his black eye, and the eloquent smile which lighted up his pensive countenance as with a sunbeam, brought back the Cousin Harry of ten years ago.  He returned my grandfather’s truly paternal greeting with the most affectionate cordiality; but with scarce a reply to my aunt’s frank welcome, gave her his arm, and made a movement towards the house.

“But, cousin,” said she, smiling, “what gem have you there, hidden in the carriage, too precious to be seen?  We have a place in our hearts for the fair stranger, I assure you.”

“Ah, poor thing!  I had quite forgotten her,” said he, coloring and laughing, as he turned towards the carriage.

Aunt Linny and I exchanged mirthful glances at this treatment of a bride; but the next instant he had lifted out and led towards us a small female personage, who, when her green veil was thrown aside, proved to be a lovely girl of some seven or eight years.

“Permit me,” said he, smiling, “to present Miss Caroline Morrison, ‘sole daughter of my house and heart.’”

“But the stranger, the foreign lady?” inquired Aunt Linny, as she kissed and welcomed the child.

“Why, this is she,—­this young Cuban!  Whom else did you look for?” was the reply, in a tone of surprise, and, as it seemed to me, of slight vexation.

“We expected a lady with a few more years on her head,” interposed grandpapa; “but the little pet is just as welcome.  There, Katy, this curly-pate will answer as well as a wax doll for you.”

The dear old gentleman could never realize that I was grown up to be a woman.  Of course, I was now introduced in due form, and we went together up the steps.

“How pleasant, how familiar all things look!” said our visitor, pausing and gazing round him.  “Why, uncle, you must have had your house, and yourself, and everything about you insured against old age.  Nothing has changed except to improve.  I see the very picture I carried with me ten years ago.”

The tears stood in my grandfather’s eyes.  “You have forgotten one great change, dear nephew,” said he; “against that we could find no insurance.”

“How could I forget?” was the answer, in a low tone, full of feeling, his own eyes filling with moisture.  “My dear aunt!  I shed many tears with and for you, when I heard of her death.”  He looked extremely amiable at this moment; I knew that I should love him.

My aunt smiled through her tears, and said, very sweetly, “The thought of her should cheer, and not cloud our meeting.  Her presence never brought me sorrow, nor does her remembrance.  Come, dear,” she added, cheerfully, taking the child’s hand, “come in and rest your poor little tired self.  Kate, find the white kitten for her.  A prettier one you never saw in France or Cuba, Miss Carrie,—­that’s what papa calls you, I suppose?”