“No, baby, no,” she murmured.  “No, darlin’, I didn’t.  I was on the beach with Meg.  No, no—­ Oh, let me cry, darlin’.  To think I’ve got you at last.  I wouldn’t have gone away, darlin’, but they told me you wouldn’t be here till dinner-time.  Oh, darlin’, is it you?  And it’s all true, isn’t it? and ye’ve come back to me for good?  Hug me close.  Oh, my baby bairn, my little one!  Oh, you precious!” and she nestled the girl’s head on her bosom, smoothing her cheek as she crooned on, the tears running down her cheeks.

Before the girl could reply there came a voice calling from the house:  “Isn’t she fine, Martha?” A woman above the middle height, young and of slender figure, dressed in a simple gray gown and without her hat, was stepping from the front porch to meet them.

“Too fine, Miss Jane, for her old Martha,” the nurse called back.  “I’ve got to love her all over again.  Oh, but I’m that happy I could burst meself with joy!  Give me hold of your hand, darlin’—­ I’m afraid I’ll lose ye ag’in if ye get out of reach of me.”

The two strolled slowly up the path to meet Jane, Martha patting the girl’s arm and laying her cheek against it as she walked.  Meg had ceased barking and was now sniffing at Lucy’s skirts, his bent tail wagging slowly, his sneaky eyes looking up into Lucy’s face.

“Will he bite, Martha?” she asked, shrinking to one side.  She had an aversion to anything physically imperfect, no matter how lovable it might be to others.  This tattered example struck her as particularly objectionable.

“No, darlin’—­nothin’ ’cept his food,” and Martha laughed.

“What a horrid little beast!” Lucy said half aloud to herself, clinging all the closer to the nurse.  “This isn’t the dog sister Jane wrote me about, is it?  She said you loved him dearly—­you don’t, do you?”

“Yes, that’s the same dog.  You don’t like him, do you, darlin’?”

“No, I think he’s awful,” retorted Lucy in a positive tone.

“It’s all I had to pet since you went away,” Martha answered apologetically.

“Well, now I’m home, give him away, please.  Go away, you dreadful dog!” she cried, stamping her foot as Meg, now reassured, tried to jump upon her.

The dog fell back, and crouching close to Martha’s side raised his eyes appealingly, his ear and tail dragging.

Jane now joined them.  She had stopped to pick some blossoms for the house.

“Why, Lucy, what’s poor Meg done?” she asked, as she stooped over and stroked the crestfallen beast’s head.  “Poor old doggie—­we all love you, don’t we?”

“Well, just please love him all to yourselves, then,” retorted Lucy with a toss of her head.  “I wouldn’t touch him with a pair of tongs.  I never saw anything so ugly.  Get away, you little brute!”

“Oh, Lucy, dear, don’t talk so,” replied the older sister in a pitying tone.  “He was half starved when Martha found him and brought him home—­and look at his poor back—­”