She looked at her uncle, whose happy face was fixed on the home of his youth and his old age—­a sense of his protecting care and affection came over her.  What might the short summer bring?  His displeasure, too—­then there would be no more for her, but to leave Exeter with all its happiness.

Poor child! for, at nearly nineteen, Alice was only a child.  The possibility overpowered her, she leant against her uncle’s bosom, and wept suddenly and violently.

“Alice, what is the matter?” said her mother.  “Are you ill?”

“What is the matter?” said her uncle, putting his arm around her, and looking alarmed.

“Nothing at all,” said Alice, trying to control herself.  “I was only thinking of all your goodness to me, and how I love you.”

“Is that all,” said Mr. Weston, pressing her more closely to his bosom.  “Why, the sight of home has turned your little head.  Come, dry up your tears, for my old eyes can distinguish the hall door, and the servants about the house collecting to meet us.”

“I can see dear Cousin Janet, standing within—­how happy she will be,” said Mrs. Weston.

“Well,” said Ellen, “I hope Abel will make a fuss over me, for nobody else ever has.”

“If you are to be married,” said Alice, smiling through her tears, “you must have his name changed, or always call him Mr. Johnson.”

“Never,” said Ellen.  “I have a perfect passion for the name of Abel.  There was a picture in my room of Abel lying down, and Cain standing, holding the club over him.  Whenever I got into a passion when I was a child, mammy used to take me to the picture and say, ’Look there, honey, if you don’t learn how to get the better of your temper, one of these days you will get in a passion like Cain and kill somebody.  Just look at him, how ugly he is—­because he’s in such a rage.’  But I always looked at Abel, who was so much prettier.  I have no doubt Abel Johnson looks just as he does in the picture.”

They were about to pass through the gates leading to the grounds; some of the servants approached the carriage, and respectfully bowing, said, ‘Welcome home, master,’ but passed on without waiting to have the salutation returned.  Mrs. Weston guessed the cause of there not being a general outbreak on the occasion of their return.  Miss Janet had spoken to a number of the servants, telling them how unable Mr. Weston was to bear any excitement, and that he would take the earliest opportunity of seeing them all at their cabins.  As he was much attached to them and might feel a good deal at the meeting after so long a separation, it would be better not to give him a noisy welcome.

She had, however, excepted the children in this prohibition, for Miss Janet had one excellent principle in the management of children, she never forbade them doing what she knew they could not help doing.  Thus, as the carriage passed the lodge, a noisy group of small-sized darkies were making a public demonstration.  “Massa’s come home,” says one.  “I sees Miss Alice,” says another.  “I sees Miss Anna, too,” said a third, though, as yet, not a face was visible to one of them.  They put their heads out of the carriage, notwithstanding, to speak to them, and Alice emptied a good-sized basket of sugar-plums, which she had bought for the purpose, over their heads.