Dr. Cavendish laughed one of his quiet laughs—­ a laugh that wrinkled the lines about his eyes, with only a low gurgle in his throat for accompaniment, picked up his whip, lifted his hat in mock courtesy to the old nurse, and calling to Rex, who, bored by Meg’s attentions, had at last retreated under the gig, chirruped to his horse, and drove on.

Martha watched the doctor and Rex until they were out of sight, walked on to the top of the low hill, and finding a seat by the roadside—­her breath came short these warm spring days—­sat down to rest, the dog stretched out in her lap.  The little outcast had come to her the day Lucy left Warehold for school, and the old nurse had always regarded him with a certain superstitious feeling, persuading herself that nothing would happen to her bairn as long as this miserable dog was well cared for.

“Ye heard what Doctor John said about her bein’ a woman, Meg?” she crooned, when she had caught her breath.  “And she with her petticoats up to her knees!  That’s all he knows about her.  Ye’d know better than that, Meg, wouldn’t ye—­if ye’d seen her grow up like he’s done?  But grown up or not, Meg” —­here she lifted the dog’s nose to get a clearer view of his sleepy eyes—­“she’s my blessed baby and she’s comin’ home this very day, Meg, darlin’; d’ye hear that, ye little ruffian?  And she’s not goin’ away ag’in, never, never.  There’ll be nobody drivin’ round in a gig lookin’ after her—­nor nobody else as long as I kin help it.  Now git up and come along; I’m that restless I can’t sit still,” and sliding the dog from her lap, she again resumed her walk toward Warehold.

Soon the village loomed in sight, and later on the open gateway of “Yardley,” the old Cobden Manor, with its two high brick posts topped with white balls and shaded by two tall hemlocks, through which could be seen a level path leading to an old colonial house with portico, white pillars supporting a balcony, and a sloping roof with huge chimneys and dormer windows.

Martha quickened her steps, and halting at the gate-posts, paused for a moment with her eyes up the road.  It was yet an hour of the time of her bairn’s arrival by the country stage, but her impatience was such that she could not enter the path without this backward glance.  Meg, who had followed behind his mistress at a snail’s pace, also came to a halt and, as was his custom, picked out a soft spot in the road and sat down on his haunches.

Suddenly the dog sprang up with a quick yelp and darted inside the gate.  The next instant a young girl in white, with a wide hat shading her joyous face, jumped from behind one of the big hemlocks and with a cry pinioned Martha’s arms to her side.

“Oh, you dear old thing, you! where have you been?  Didn’t you know I was coming by the early stage?” she exclaimed in a half-querulous tone.

The old nurse disengaged one of her arms from the tight clasp of the girl, reached up her hand until she found the soft cheek, patted it gently for an instant as a blind person might have done, and then reassured, hid her face on Lucy’s shoulder and burst into tears.  The joy of the surprise had almost stopped her breath.