They remained some time in silence together after this—­John lost in thought, Valentine much the better for having relieved his mind.  Then Emily came to the door ready for her drive, and looking very sweet and serene.

“Come, you have been talking long enough.  John, how grave you look!  I could not forbear to let you know that some letters have arrived.  St. George and Dorothea are at home again, and the baby can almost walk alone.  But, Val, it seems that you have been inviting young Crayshaw here?”

“I have taken that liberty, madam,” said Valentine.  “Have you anything to say against it?”

Emily smiled, but made no answer.

“That boy and I suit each other uncommonly well,” continued Valentine.  “Our correspondence, though I say it, would be worth publishing—­stuck as full of jokes as a pincushion should be of pins.  It often amused me when I was ill.  But his brother is going to take him home.”

“Ah, home to America!” said Emily, betraying to neither John nor Valentine the pleasure this news gave her.

John was silent, still deeply pondering the unwelcome surprise of the afternoon.  Valentine was refreshed by her presence, and at finding his avowal over.

“And so,” continued Valentine, “he wrote to me and asked if I would have him for two days before he left.  He knew that you would all be here, and he wanted to take leave.”

“He is a droll young fellow,” said Emily.  “Johnnie will miss his ‘chum.’  One of the letters was from him.  He is to be here in an hour, and Johnnie has started off to meet him, with Bertie and one of the girls.”

The other of the girls, namely, Gladys, had betrayed just a little shyness, and had left his young allies to go and fetch Crayshaw without her.  Emily meeting her in the corridor as she came up-stairs, had stopped and given her a cordial kiss.

“She is so very young,” thought the warm-hearted step-mother.  “She will soon forget it.”

She took Gladys with her, and after their short drive managed that they should be together when young Crayshaw appeared; and she helped her through a certain embarrassment and inclination to contradict herself while answering his reproachful inquiries respecting Blob, his dog.

“Father would not let us bring him,” said Barbara, confirming the assurance of the others on that head.

“I have a great mind to go back all the way round by Wigfield to take leave of him,” said Crayshaw.  “You think I don’t love that dog?  All I know is, then, that I called him out of his kennel the last time I left him—­woke him from his balmy slumber, and kissed him.”

“Oh, yes, we know all about that,” observed Barbara.  “It was quite dusk, mamma, and Johnnie had stuck up the kitchenmaid’s great mop, leaning against the roof of Blob’s kennel, where he often sits when he is sulky.  We all went to see the fun, and Cray thrust his face into it.  It looked just like Blob’s head.”