“No laughing at your old uncle, you little rogue,” said John Greylston pleasantly, “but run and find your aunt.  She is somewhere in the house.”  And he looked after her with a loving smile as she flitted by him.  Annie Bermon passed quickly through the shaded sitting-room into the cool and matted hall, catching glimpses as she went of the pretty parlour and wide library; but her aunt was in neither of these rooms; so she hurried up stairs, and stealing on tiptoe, with gentle fingers she pushed open the door.  Margaret Greylston was sitting by the table, sewing; her face was flushed, and her eyes red and swollen as with weeping.  Annie stood still in wonder.  But Miss Margaret suddenly looked up, and her niece sprang, with a glad cry, into her arms.

“You are not well, Aunt Margaret?  Oh! how sorry I am to hear that, but it seems to me I could never get sick in this sweet place; everything looks so bright and lovely here.  And I would come this morning, Aunt Margaret, in spite of everything Sophy and all of them could say.  They told me I had been here once before this summer, and stayed a long time, and if I would, come again, my welcome would be worn out, just as if I was going to believe such nonsense;” and Annie tossed her head.  “But I persevered, and you see, aunty dear, I am here, we will trust for some good purpose, as Richard would say.”

A silent Amen to this rose up in Miss Margaret’s heart, and with it came a hope dim and shadowy, yet beautiful withal; she hardly dared to cherish it.  Annie went on talking,—­

“I can only stay two weeks with you—­school commences then, and I must hurry back to it; but I am always so glad to get here, away from the noise and dust of the city; this is the best place in the world.  Do you know when we were travelling this summer, I was pining all the time to get here.  I was so tired of Newport and Saratoga, and all the crowds we met.”

“You are singular in your tastes, some would think, Annie,” said Miss Greylston, smiling fondly on her darling.

“So Madge and Sophy were always saying; even Clare laughed at me, and my brothers, too,—­only Richard,—­Oh! by the way, I did torment him this morning, he is so grave and good, and he was just beginning a nice lecture at the gate, when the driver called, and poor Richard had only time to send his love to you.  Wasn’t it droll, though, that lecture being cut so short?” and Annie threw herself down in the great cushioned chair, and laughed heartily.

Annie Bermond was the youngest of John and Margaret Greylston’s nieces and nephews.  Her beauty, her sweet and sunny temper made her a favourite at home and abroad.  John Greylston loved her dearly; he always thought she looked like his chosen bride, Ellen Day.  Perhaps there was some likeness, for Annie had the same bright eyes, and the same pouting, rose-bud lips—­but Margaret thought she was more like their own family.  She loved to trace a resemblance in the smiling face, rich golden curls, and slight figure of Annie to her young sister Edith, who died when Annie was a little baby.  Just sixteen years old was Annie, and wild and active as any deer, as her city-bred sisters sometimes declared half mournfully.