“Yes, yes,” chorused the company, and I was too busy trying to get off my gloves to speak.  Father came in, and welcomed him with warmth.  Fanny ran out for a lamp; when she brought it, Veronica changed the position of her screen, and held it close to her face.

“Did you have a cold ride, Locke?” asked mother, gazing into the fire with that expression of satisfaction we have when somebody beside ourselves has been exposed to hardships.  It is the same principle entertained by those who depend upon and enjoy seeing criminals hung.

Meanwhile my bonnet-strings got in a knot, which Fanny saw, and was about to apply scissors, when Aunt Merce, unable to bear the sacrifice, interfered and untied them, all present so interested in the operation that conversation was suspended.  Presently Aunt Merce was called out, and was shortly followed by mother and Fanny.  Ben stood before me; his eyes, darting sharp rays, pierced me through; they rested on the thread-like scars which marked my cheek, and which were more visible from the effect of cold.

“Tattooed still,” I said in a low voice, pointing to them.

“I see”—­a sorrowful look crossed his face; he took my hand and kissed it.  Veronica, who had dropped the screen, met my glance toward her with one perfectly impassive.  As they watched me, I saw myself as they did.  A tall girl in gray, whose deep, controlled voice vibrated in their ears, like the far-off sounds we hear at night from woods or the sea, whose face was ineffaceably marked, whose air impressed with a sense of mystery.  I think both would have annihilated my personality if possible, for the sake of comprehending me, for both loved me in their way.

“What are you reading, father?” asked Veronica suddenly.

“To-day’s letters, and I must be off for Boston; would you like to go?”

“My sister Adelaide has sent for you, Cassandra, to visit us,” said Ben, “and will you go too, Veronica?”

“Thanks, I must decline.  If Cass should go—­and she will—­I may go to Boston.”

He looked at her curiously.  “It would not be pleasant for you to attempt Belem.  I hate it, but I feel a fate-impelling power in regard to Cassandra; I want her there.”

“May I go then?” I asked.

“Certainly,” father replied.

“Please come out to supper,” called Fanny.  “We have something particular for you, Mr. Morgeson.”

We saw mother at the table, a book in her hand.  She was finishing a chapter in “The Hour and the Man.”  Aunt Merce stood eyeing the dishes with the aspect of a judge.  As father took his seat, near Veronica, Fanny, according to habit, stood behind it.  With the most degage air, Ben suffered nothing to escape him, and I never forgot the picture of that moment.

We talked of Helen’s visit—­a subject that could be commented on freely.  Veronica told Ben Helen’s opinion of him; he reddened slightly, and said that such a sage could not be contradicted.  When father remarked that the opinions of women were whimsical, Fanny gave an audible sniff, which made Ben smile.