Rosalind clapped her hands.  “I don’t think I am a bit disappointed in you, and I am almost sure you will like the Forest.”

“What forest?”

“I’ll show you the book and tell you about it sometime; and then maybe you will join our society.”

“This sounds interesting; I believe I shall like Friendship.”

Rosalind surveyed him thoughtfully.  “I think I’ll begin by taking you to see the magician,” she said.

By what witchery did she divine that the shortest path to his boyhood was by way of the magician’s?

“The magician?  Oh, that is Morgan, I suppose.”  Allan’s eyes rested absently on the drooping hydrangea a few feet away.

Presently a soft hand stole beneath his chin, and Rosalind demanded merrily, as she tried to turn his face to hers, “What are you thinking about?  Are you disappointed in me?”

“Not terribly,” her uncle replied, and seizing the hand he drew her to him and gave her the kiss of friendship and good-fellowship.

Rosalind was fastidious about kisses.  She reserved them for those she loved, and received them shrinkingly from those she did not care for; but in this short interview she had found a friend, and she returned the caress with an ardor of affection pretty to see.

Martin, announcing lunch, interrupted their talk, and, hand in hand, Rosalind and her new comrade walked to the house.  In the exuberance of her content, she patted one of the griffins as she passed.  Her uncle observed it.

“Have you ever noticed the resemblance between Uncle Allan Barnwell and the griffins?” he asked.

The idea amused Rosalind greatly, and as she took her seat at the table, the sight of the haughtily poised head and eagle eyes of the portrait made her laugh.  Things were indeed taking a turn when that stern face caused amusement.

With Uncle Allan at the foot of the table, luncheon was transformed into a festive occasion.  Masculine tones were almost startling from their novelty; Rosalind found herself forgetting to eat.  Grandmamma was wonderfully bright, and Aunt Genevieve showed a languid animation most unusual.

“It was like you, Allan, after putting us off so long, to end by surprising us,” his sister said.

“I trust you intend to stay for a while,” his mother added, almost wistfully.

Genevieve laughed half scornfully, as if she considered this a forlorn hope.

Allan looked at her a moment before he replied, “I don’t know; I shall probably be here some time.”  He had more than half promised his friend Blanchard to join him in a trip over the Canadian Pacific in August.  At present he felt inclined to give it up and remain in Friendship.  He would not commit himself.

He thought it over lazily after lunch, resting in the sleepy-hollow chair by the east window in the room that had been his ever since he graduated from the nursery.  All about him were devices for comfort and adornment that spoke of his mother’s hand.  She knew the sort of thing he liked,—­his handsome, unhappy mother.  It was a shame to leave her so much alone; yet she never complained, but seemed always self-sufficient and independent.