“I reckon it’s all right, if he’s coming so soon.  I’m his cousin, Mrs. Peyton.  These are my children.  I haven’t seen Andrew since he was a boy at college, but he’ll remember me.  Are you—­” She hesitated.

Mrs. Birch came forward.  “We are the mother and sister of Mrs. Churchill,” she said, and offered her hand.  “Doctor Churchill was expecting you?”

“Well, maybe not just at this time,” admitted the newcomer, without reluctance.  “I didn’t know I was coming myself until just as I bought my ticket for home.  I happened to think I was within sixty miles of that place in the North where I knew Andrew settled.  So I thought we’d better stop and see him and his new wife.”

There was nothing to do but to usher her in.  With a rebellious heart Celia led Mrs. Peyton into the living-room and assisted her and the children out of their wrappings.  All sorts of strange ideas were occurring to her.  It was within the bounds of possibility that these people were not what they claimed to be—­she had heard of such things.  She was unwilling to show them to Charlotte’s pretty guest-room, to offer them refreshment, even to light the fire for them.

It was too bad, it was unbearable, that the home-coming for which she and her mother had made such preparation should be spoiled by the presence of these strangers.  To be sure, if she was Andrew’s cousin she was no stranger to him, yet Celia could not recollect that he had ever spoken of her, even in the most casual way.

But her hope that in some way this might prove to be a case of mistaken identity was soon extinguished.  When she had slipped away to the kitchen, at a suggestion from her mother that the guests should be served with something to eat, she found that information concerning Mrs. Peyton was to be had from Mrs. Fields.

“Peyton?  For the lands’ sake!  Don’t tell me she’s here!  Know her?  I guess I do!  Of all the unfortunate things to happen right now, I should consider her about the worst calamity.  What is she?  Oh, she ain’t anything—­that’s about the worst I can say of her.  There ain’t anything bad about her—­oh, no.  Sometimes I’ve been driven to wish there was, if I do say it!  She’s just what I should call one of them characterless sort of folks—­kind of soft and silly, like a silk sofy cushion without enough stuffing in it.  Always talking, she is, without saying anything in particular.  I don’t know about the children.  They were little things when I saw ’em last.  What do you say they look like?”

“The girl is about fourteen, I should think,” said Celia, getting out tray and napkins.  “She’s rather a pretty child—­doesn’t look very strong.  The boy is quite a handsome fellow, of nine or ten.  Oh, it’s all right, of course, and I’ve no doubt Doctor Churchill will be glad to see any relatives of his family.  Only—­if it needn’t have happened just to-day!”