“I did not think of that,” said Alice, blushing deeply, and looking down at her dress; “I only—­”

“Miss Alice,” said Lydia, “I hears somethin.”

“No, no,” said Miss Janet, looking from the window, “there is nothing—­”

“Deed the is,” said Lydia.  “Its Mas’ Arthur’s horse, I know.”

Mr. Weston went out on the porch, and the ladies stood at the windows.  The voices of the servants could be distinctly heard.  From the nature of the sound, there was no doubt they were giving a noisy welcome to their young master.

“He is coming,” said Miss Janet, much agitated; “the servants would not make that noise were he not in sight.”

“I hear the horses, too,” said Ellen; “we will soon see him where the road turns.”

“There he comes,” said Mrs. Weston.  “It must be Arthur.  William is with him; he took a horse for Arthur to the stage house.”

The father stood looking forward, the wind gently lifting the thin white hair from his temples; his cheek flushed, his clear blue eye beaming with delight.  The horseman approached.  The old man could not distinguish his face, yet there was no mistaking his gay and gallant bearing.  The spirited and handsome animal that bore him flew over the gravelled avenue.  Only a few minutes elapsed from the time he was first seen to the moment when the father laid his head upon his son’s shoulder; and while he was clasped to that youthful and manly heart experienced sensations of joy such as are not often felt here.

Alice had known, too, that it was he.  But when we long to be assured of happiness, we are often slow to believe.  It was not until her eyes could distinguish every feature that her heart said, “It is Arthur.”  Then all was forgotten—­all timidity, all reserve—­all, save that he was the dearly loved brother of her childhood; the being with whom her destiny had long been associated.  She passed from the drawing-room to the porch as he alighted from his horse, and when his father released him from a long embrace, Arthur’s eyes fell upon the dear and unchanged countenance, fixed upon him with a look of welcome that said more than a thousand words.

* * * * *

“Aunt,” said Arthur, a week after his return, as he sat with Mrs. Weston and Alice in the arbor, “before you came, Alice had been trying to persuade me that she had been in love with Walter; but I can’t believe it.”

“I never did believe it for a moment.  She thought she was, and she was seized with such a panic of truth and honor that she made a great commotion; insisted on writing to you, and making a full confession; wanted to tell her uncle, and worry him to death; doing all sorts of desperate things.  She actually worked herself into a fever.  It was all a fancy.”

“I have too good an opinion of myself to believe it,” said Arthur.

“I am sorry,” said Alice, “for it is true.  It is a pity your vanity cannot be a little diminished.”