“I am so glad to come to you,—­to see you and the children again, Caroline.  I was away when Elsie’s letter arrived; but as soon as I got into New York yesterday, I started off, and I am so glad to come, so glad to come;” and here Mrs. Lambert heard the eager voice falter, and saw the glisten of tears in the eyes that were regarding her and in the next instant felt them against her cheek as a tender kiss was pressed upon it.  It was all in a moment, the strange surprise of look and word and tone and touch, the joyful cries of “It’s Uncle John, it’s Uncle John!” from some one of the children.  Then all in a moment the strangeness seemed to have passed, and John Lambert was taking his place amongst them with the fond belief that he was his sister-in-law’s chosen guest.  And she, with those warm, manly words of thanks, those joyful cries of childish welcome in her ears, could she undeceive him,—­could she say to him:  “It was not I who sent for you; I am the same as ever, as full of wild regrets and bitter resentments”?  Could she say this to him?  How could she, how could she, when over the wild regrets and bitter resentments there kept rising and rising a flood of earlier memories of an earlier time when this guest had been a welcome guest indeed, and she had heard again and again those very words, “I’m so glad to come”?  Those very words, but with what a difference of accent, and what a difference in the speaker himself,—­only a year and his face so worn, his hair so white, she had not known him!  He must have suffered,—­yes, and she—­she had suffered; but she had her children, and he had no one!

The dinner was over.  They had all risen from the table, and were going into the parlor, and Uncle John had his namesake Johnny on one side of him and little Archie on the other.  They had taken possession of him from the first, when Elsie, hanging back, clung to her mother and whispered agitatedly,—­

“Oh, mamma, mamma, it was what you said last week about Tommy’s invitation that made me think of—­of inviting Uncle John; but perhaps I ought to have told you—­have asked you.”

“No, no, it is better as it is.  Don’t fret, dear, it—­it is all right.  But there is Ann bringing the coffee into the parlor.  Go and light your little teakettle, Elsie, and make your uncle a cup of tea as you used to do; he can’t drink coffee, you know.”