As Beulah descended the steps she found Pauline and Mrs. Lockhart waiting at the carriage for her.  The latter greeted her with quite a show of cordiality; but the orphan shrank back from the offered kiss, and merely touched the extended hand.  She had not forgotten the taunts and unkindness of other days; and, though not vindictive, she could not feign oblivion of the past, nor assume a friendly manner foreign to her.  She took her seat in the carriage, and found it rather difficult to withdraw her fascinated eyes from Pauline’s lovely face.  She knew what was expected of her, however; and said, as they drove rapidly homeward: 

“Mr. Mortimor seems to be a man of more than ordinary erudition.”

“Did you like his sermon?  Do you like him?” asked Pauline eagerly.

“I like him very much indeed; but do not like his sermon at all,” answered Beulah bluntly.

“I am sure everybody seemed to be delighted with it,” said Mrs. Lockhart.

“Doubtless the majority of his congregation were; and I was very much interested, though I do not accept his views.  His delivery is remarkably impressive, and his voice is better adapted to the pulpit than any I have ever listened to.”  She strove to say everything favorable which, in candor, she could.

“Still you did not like his sermon?” said Pauline gravely.

“I cannot accept his conclusions.”

“I liked the discourse particularly, Pauline.  I wish Percy could have heard it,” said Mrs. Lockhart.

The daughter took no notice whatever of this considerate speech, and sat quite still, looking more serious than Beulah had ever seen her.  Conversation flagged, despite the young teacher’s efforts, and she was heartily glad when the carriage entered the avenue.  Her heart swelled as she caught sight of the noble old cedars, whose venerable heads seemed to bow in welcome, while the drooping branches held out their arms, as if to embrace her.  Each tree was familiar; even the bright coral yaupon clusters were like dear friends greeting her after a long absence.  She had never realized until now how much she loved this home of her early childhood, and large drops dimmed her eyes as she passed along the walks where she had so often wandered.

The carriage approached the house, and she saw her quondam guardian standing before the door.  He was bare-headed, and the sunshine fell like a halo upon his brown, clustering hair, threading it with gold.  He held, in one hand, a small basket of grain, from which he fed a flock of hungry pigeons.  On every side they gathered about him—­blue and white, brown and mottled—­some fluttering down from the roof of the house; two or three, quite tame, perched on his arm, eating from the basket; and one, of uncommon beauty, sat on his shoulder, cooing softly.  By his side stood Charon, looking gravely on, as if he, wise soul, thought this familiarity signally impudent.  It was a singularly quiet, peaceful scene, which indelibly daguerreotyped itself on Beulah’s memory.  As the carriage whirled round the circle, and drew up at the door, the startled flock wheeled off; and, brushing the grain from his hands, Dr. Hartwell advanced to assist his sister.  Pauline sprang out first, exclaiming: