Archie was the one thing new—­new to Lucy.  And yet she had no fear either for him or for Lucy.  When she saw him she would love him, and when she had known him a week she would never be separated from him again.  The long absence could not have wiped out all remembrance of the boy, nor would the new child crowd him from her heart.

When Doctor John sprang from his gig (the custom of his daily visits had never been broken) she could hardly wait until he tied his horse—­poor Bess had long since given out—­to tell him the joyful news.

He listened gravely, his face lighting up at her happiness.  He was glad for Jane and said so frankly, but the situation did not please him.  He at heart really dreaded the effect of Lucy’s companionship on the woman he loved.  Although it had been years since he had seen her, he had followed her career, especially since her marriage, with the greatest interest and with the closest attention.  He had never forgotten, nor had he forgiven her long silence of two years after her marriage, during which time she had never written Jane a line, nor had he ever ceased to remember Jane’s unhappiness over it.  Jane had explained it all to him on the ground that Lucy was offended because she had opposed the marriage, but the doctor knew differently.  Nor had he ceased to remember the other letters which followed, and how true a story they told of Lucy’s daily life and ambitions.  He could almost recall the wording of one of them.  “My husband is too ill,” it had said, “to go south with me, and so I will run down to Rome for a month or so, for I really need the change.”  And a later one, written since his death, in which she wrote of her winter in Paris and at Monte Carlo, and “how good my mother-in-law is to take care of Ellen.”  This last letter to her sister, just received—­the one he then held in his hand, and which gave Jane such joy, and which he was then reading as carefully as if it had been a prescription —­was to his analytical mind like all the rest of its predecessors.  One sentence sent a slight curl to his lips.  “I cannot stay away any longer from my precious sister,” it said, “and am coming back to the home I adore.  I have no one to love me, now that my dear husband is dead, but you and my darling Ellen.”

The news of Lucy’s expected return spread rapidly.  Old Martha in her joy was the mouthpiece.  She gave the details out at church the Sunday morning following the arrival of Lucy’s letter.  She was almost too ill to venture out, but she made the effort, stopping the worshippers as they came down the board walk; telling each one of the good news, the tears streaming down her face.  To the children and the younger generation the announcement made but little difference; some of them had never heard that Miss Jane had a sister, and others only that she lived abroad.  Their mothers knew, of course, and so did the older men, and all were pleased over the news.  Those of them who remembered the happy, joyous girl with her merry eyes and ringing laugh were ready to give her a hearty welcome; they felt complimented that the distinguished lady—­fifteen years’ residence abroad and a rich husband had gained her this position—­should be willing to exchange the great Paris for the simple life of Warehold.  It touched their civic pride.