“So you’re back for good?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’re mighty glad to have you.”

Fiddle Flippin, dancing and doubling up on Randy’s knee like a very soft doll, suddenly held out her arms to her mother.

As Mary leaned forward to take her, Randy was aware of the change in her.  In the old days Mary had been a gay little thing, with an impertinent tongue.  She was not gay now.  She was a Madonna, tender-eyed, brooding over her child.

“She has changed a lot,” Randy said, as they drove on.

“Why shouldn’t she change?” Becky demanded.  “Wouldn’t any woman change if she had loved a man and had let him go to France?”

IV

It was still raining hard when the surrey stopped at a high and rusty iron gate flanked by brick pillars overgrown with Virginia creeper.

“Becky,” said young Paine, “you can’t walk up to the house.  It’s pouring.”

“I don’t see any house,” said Major Prime.

“Well, you never do from the road in this part of the country.  We put our houses on the tops of hills, and have acres to the right of us, and acres to the left, and acres in front, and acres behind, and you can never visit your neighbors without going miles, and nobody ever walks except little Becky Bannister when she runs away.”

“And I am going to run now,” said Becky.  “Randy, there’s a raincoat under that seat.  I’ll put it on if you will hand it out to me.”

“You are going to ride up, my dear child.  Drive on, Jefferson.”

“Randy, please, your mother is waiting.  She didn’t come down to the station because she said that if she wept on your shoulder, she would not do it before the whole world.  But she is waiting——­ And it isn’t fair for me to hold you back a minute.”

He yielded at last reluctantly, “Remember, you are to act as if you had never met me,” she said to Major Prime as she gave him her hand at parting, “when you see me to-night.”

“Becky,” Randy asked, in a sudden panic, “are the boarders to be drawn up in ranks to welcome me?”

“No, your mother has given you and Major Prime each two rooms in the Schoolhouse, and we are to dine out there, in your sitting-room—­our families and the Major.  And there won’t be a soul to see you until morning, and then you can show yourself off by inches.”

“Until to-night then,” said Randy, and opened the gate for her.

“Until to-night,” she watched them and waved her hand as they drove off.

“A beautiful child,” the Major remarked from the shadow of the back seat.

“She’s more than beautiful,” said Randy, glowing, “oh, you wait till you really know her, Major.”

V

The Schoolhouse at King’s Crest had been built years before by one of the Paines for two sons and their tutor.  It was separated from the old brick mansion by a wide expanse of unmowed lawn, thick now in midsummer with fluttering poppies.  There was a flagged stone walk, and an orchard at the left, beyond the orchard were rolling fields, and in the distance one caught a glimpse of the shining river.