The train had just come in when Squire Carruthers’ party arrived at the station, so nicely had he timed his driving.  As there was nobody to hold the horses, he kept his seat, while Coristine, looking faultlessly neat in his town dress, came forward and assisted Miss Carmichael and Marjorie to alight.  Having asked the former’s permission, the lawyer introduced Miss Graves, a young lady not unlike Miss Du Plessis in stature and carriage, but with larger, though handsome, features and lighter complexion.  Then, Mr. Douglas, a fine-looking blonde man of masculine Scottish type, was made acquainted with his fair client, and with her nominal guardian on the box.  Finally, the colonel, standing by his horse’s head, bowed with genial dignity to the new arrivals, and warmly pressed the hand of his dear boy’s friend.  The Squire’s little scheme was frustrated.  His niece, without asking advice or permission from anybody, placed Miss Graves beside the driver, and established herself on the same seat, leaving Marjorie between the two gentlemen on the one behind, after they had bestowed their valises and Miss Graves’ portmanteau in their rear.  Beyond a ceremonious handshake, Miss Carmichael gave Coristine no recognition, although she could not have failed to perceive his delight at once more meeting her.  To Miss Graves, however, she was all that could be desired, cheerful, even animated, and full of pleasant conversation.  Marjorie kept her Eugene and the new gentleman busy.  She reported on the creek, and presented her faded bouquet of wild flowers, which Eugene received with all the semblance of lively satisfaction.  She made many enquiries regarding the big girl in front, and insisted especially on knowing if she was nice.  Then she turned to Mr. Douglas and asked his name.

“My name is Douglas,” he answered.

“Oh, I know that, even Timotheus himself knows that.  I mean what’s your real name, your very own, the name your mamma calls you?”

“She used to call me James.”

“Oh; have you got a brother called John?”

“Yes; how did you know that?”

“Oh, I know.  Then your papa’s name is Zebedee, and your mamma’s is Salome.”

“No, we are not those two James and Johns; they are dead.”

“They are the only James and John I know.”

“I don’t think so.  Your uncle, Dr. Carmichael, was called James Douglas, like me.”

“Marjorie’s dead papa?”

“Yes; your cousin is a sort of far-away cousin of mine; so you must be one of my cousins, too.  What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s nice to have a growed-up man cousin.  I’ll call you Jim.”

“Marjorie!” said a reproving voice from the front seat; “you must not talk to Mr. Douglas in that pert way.”

“If my cousin lets me call him Jim, it’s none of your business, cousin Marjorie.  You will let me, won’t you, cousin Jim?”

“To be sure, if Miss Carmichael will allow me.”