When the joy of hearing her voice and of looking into her dear face once more had passed, his skilled eyes probed the deeper.  He noted with a sinking at the heart the dark circles under the drooping lids, the drawn, pallid skin and telltale furrows that had cut their way deep into her cheeks.  Her eyes, too, had lost their lustre, and her step lacked the spring and vigor of her old self.  The diagnosis alarmed him.  Even the mould of her face, so distinguished, and to him so beautiful, had undergone a change; whether through illness, or because of some mental anguish, he could not decide.

When he pressed his inquiries about Lucy she answered with a half-stifled sigh that Lucy had decided to remain abroad for a year longer; adding that it had been a great relief to her, and that at first she had thought of remaining with her, but that their affairs, as he knew, had become so involved at home that she feared their means of living might be jeopardized if she did not return at once.  The child, however, would be a comfort to both Martha and herself until Lucy came.  Then she added in a constrained voice: 

“Its mother would not, or could not care for it, and so I brought it with me.”

Once at home and the little waif safely tucked away in the crib that had sheltered Lucy in the old days, the neighbors began to flock in; Uncle Ephraim among the first.

“My, but I’m glad you’re back!” he burst out.  “Martha’s been lonelier than a cat in a garret, and down at our house we ain’t much better.  And so that Bunch of Roses is going to stay over there, is she, and set those Frenchies crazy?”

Pastor Dellenbaugh took both of Jane’s hands into his own and looking into her face, said: 

“Ah, but we’ve missed you!  There has been no standard, my dear Miss Jane, since you’ve been gone.  I have felt it, and so has everyone in the church.  It is good to have you once more with us.”

Mrs. Cavendish could hardly conceal her satisfaction, although she was careful what she said to her son.  Her hope was that the care of the child would so absorb Jane that John would regain his freedom and be no longer subservient to Miss Cobden’s whims.

“And so Lucy is to stay in Paris?” she said, with one of her sweetest smiles.  “She is so charming and innocent, that sweet sister of yours, my dear Miss Jane, and so sympathetic.  I quite lost my heart to her.  And to study music, too?  A most noble accomplishment, my dear.  My grandmother, who was an Erskine, you know, played divinely on the harp, and many of my ancestors, especially the Dagworthys, were accomplished musicians.  Your sister will look lovely bending over a harp.  My grandmother had her portrait painted that way by Peale, and it still hangs in the old house in Trenton.  And they tell me you have brought a little angel with you to bring up and share your loneliness?  How pathetic, and how good of you!”

The village women—­they came in groups—­asked dozens of questions before Jane had had even time to shake each one by the hand.  Was Lucy so in love with the life abroad that she would never come back? was she just as pretty as ever? what kind of bonnets were being worn? etc., etc.