And then Allan began to reflect on the singular fact that he was seldom quite at ease with his mother, although he admired her, and at one time had been very much under her influence.  If he had ceased to care for his home, it was her fault for sending him away for so long.  “Poor mother!” he thought.  “We have all disappointed her; but she was never quite fair to any of us.  She wanted us to go her way, and, being her children, we preferred our own.”

The sound of Rosalind’s voice floated in at the window.  He looked out.  She was crossing the lawn, after an interview with Katherine through the hedge.

“When are we to begin?” he called.

“Whenever you like,” she answered.

He went down and joined her in the garden, thinking what a difference she made in the place.  He had not supposed a girl of twelve could be so charming; but then, she was his brother’s daughter, with something of her father about her, and he had felt a little boy’s admiration for this older brother.

Rosalind told him it was almost like having father or Cousin Louis to talk to; and as they wandered about the garden Allan found himself feeling flattered at her evident pleasure in his society.

She brought out her treasured book to show him, and explained about the Forest; and Allan listened absently, noting the soft curve of her cheek and the length of the dark lashes, his memory going back to that one occasion when he had seen the gentle and lovely girl who was afterward his brother’s wife.

“And now we must go to the magician’s,” said Rosalind.

Not many of the inhabitants of Friendship were abroad in the middle of a summer afternoon, and they had the street almost to themselves when they set out.  The quiet, the bowed shutters, the deserted porches, suggested a universal nap.  Allan looked up at the tall maples, whose branches met across the road just as they had done in his childhood.  Truly, there was a charm about the old town, with its homelike dwellings and generous gardens, he acknowledged to himself.  “I believe we are the only people awake,” he remarked.

“The magician will be awake,” Rosalind replied; and so he was, rubbing down the clock case to-day, but by no means too much occupied for company, and he welcomed his visitors cordially, saying Allan was one of his boys.

Rosalind was amazed at the ease and rapidity with which her uncle talked with the cabinet-maker.

“Have you come home to stay this time, Mr. Allan?” Morgan asked.

Allan laughed, and said he did not know about that.

“Two—­four—­eight years—­” the magician told them off on his fingers, shaking his head.  “Too long.  Take root somewhere, Mr. Allan; too much travel spoils you.  Your father loved Friendship.”

“Yes,” said Allan, gravely.

“You make him join the society,” Morgan said, turning to Rosalind.

“He means our secret society,” she explained.  “He belongs, and he has our motto on the wall,” and she drew her uncle to the door of the back room and pointed it out.