The great entrance gates were unlocked now, the lawn smoothly cut, the green lace-work of vines trimly trained around the high white pillars of the porches.  The pony-cart turned back at the gate, and the carriage drove slowly up the avenue alone.  The mellow sunlight of the warm September afternoon filtered down like gold, through the trees arching overhead.

“‘Oh, the sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home,’” sang Lloyd, softly, leaning out of the carriage to wave her hand to Mom Beck, who, in whitest of aprons and gayest of head bandanas, stood smiling and curtseying on the steps.  The good old black face beamed with happiness as she cried, “Heah comes my baby, an’ li’l’ Miss Betty, too, bless her soul an’ body!”

Around the house came May Lily and a tribe of little pickaninnies, who fell back at sight of Hero leaping out of the carriage.  He was the largest dog they had ever seen.  Lloyd called them all around her and made them each shake hands with the astonished St. Bernard, who did not seem to relish this part of his introduction to Kentucky.

“He’ll soon get used to you,” said the Little Colonel.  “May Lily, you run tell Aunt Cindy to give you a cooky or a piece of chicken for him to eat.  Henry Clay, you bring a pan of watah.  If you all fly around and wait on him right good, he’ll like you lots bettah.”

Leaving Lloyd to offer Hero the hospitality of Locust in the midst of her little black admirers, Betty slowly followed her godmother up the wide stairs.

“You’re to have the same white and gold room again, dear,” said Mrs. Sherman, peeping in as she passed the door.  “I see that it is all in readiness.  So walk in and take possession.”

Betty was glad that she was alone, those first few minutes, the joy of the home-coming was so keen.  Going in, she shut the door and gave a swift glance all around, from the dark polished floor, with its white angora rugs, to the filmy white curtains at the open casement windows.  Everything was just as she had seen it last,—­the dear little white dressing-table, with its crystal candlesticks, that always made her think of twisted icicles; the little heart-shaped pincushion and all the dainty toilet articles of ivory and gold; the pictures on the wall; the freshly gathered plumes of goldenrod in the crystal bowl on the mantel.  She stood a moment, looking out of the open window, and thinking of the year that had gone by since she last stood in that room.  Many a long and perilous mile she had travelled, but here she was back in safety, and instead of bandaged eyes and the horror of blindness hovering over her, she was able to look out on the beautiful world with strong, far-seeing sight.

The drudgery of the Cuckoo’s Nest was far behind her now, and the bare little room under the eaves.  Henceforth this was to be her home.  She remembered the day in the church when her godmother’s invitation to the house party reached her, and just as she had knelt then in front of the narrow, bench-like altar, she knelt now, beside the little white bed.  Now, as then, the late afternoon sun streamed across her brown curls and shining face, and “Thank you, dear God,” came in the same grateful whisper from the depths of the same glad little heart.