The carriage was ready; where was Aunt Merce?

“Locke,” she said, when she came in, “I have got a bottle of port for Cassandra, some essence of peppermint, and sandwiches; do you think that will do?”

“We can purchase supplies along the road, if yours give out.  Come, we are ready.  Mr. Somers, we shall see you at Surrey?  Take care, Cassy.  Now we are off.”

“I shall leave Rosville,” were Ben’s last words.

“What a fine, handsome young man he is!  He is a gentleman,” said Aunt Merce.

“Of course, Aunt Merce.”

“Why of course?  I should think from the way you speak that you had only seen young gentlemen of his stamp.  Have you forgotten Surrey?”

Father and she laughed.  They could laugh very easily, for they were overjoyed to have me going home with them.  Mother would be glad, they said.  I felt it, though I did not say so.

How soundly I slept that night at the inn on the road!  A little after sunset, on the third day, for we traveled slowly, we reached the woods which bordered Surrey, and soon came in sight of the sea encircling it like a crescent moon.  It was as if I saw the sea for the first time.  A vague sense of its power surprised me; it seemed to express my melancholy.  As we approached the house, the orchard, and I saw Veronica’s window, other feelings moved me.  Not because I saw familiar objects, nor because I was going home—­it was the relation in which I stood to them, that I felt.  We drove through the gate, and saw a handsome little boy astride a window-sill, with two pipes in his mouth, “Papa!” he shrieked, threw his pipes down, and dropped on the ground, to run after us.

“Hasn’t Arthur grown?” Aunt Merce asked.  “He is almost seven.”

“Almost seven?  Where have the years gone?”

I looked about.  I had been away so long, the house looked diminished.  Mother was in the door, crying when she put her arms round me; she could not speak.  I know now there should have been no higher beatitude than to live in the presence of an unselfish, unasking, vital love.  I only said, “Oh, mother, how gray your hair is!  Are you glad to see me?  I have grown old too!”

We went in by the kitchen, where the men were, and a young girl with a bulging forehead.  Hepsey looked out from the buttery door, and put her apron to her eyes, without making any further demonstration of welcome.  Temperance was mixing dough.  She made an effort to giggle, but failed; and as she could not cover her face with her doughy hands, was obliged to let the tears run their natural course.  Recovering herself in a moment, she exclaimed: 

“Heavenly Powers, how you’re altered!  I shouldn’t have known you.  Your hair and skin are as dry as chips; they didn’t wash you with Castile soap, I’ll bet.”

“How you do talk, Temperance,” Hepsey quavered.

The girl with the bulging forehead laughed a shrill laugh.