“Mother,” little Dick was about to scream, when Victor placed his hand upon his mouth, at the same time turning his back to Edith, who, a little surprised at the proceeding, and a little indignant it may be, said rather haughtily, and with a hasty glance at Richard,

“My seat, sir, if you please.”

The boy by this time had broken away from Victor, and yelled out, “Uncle Dick, ma, Uncle Dick;” but it did not need this now to tell Edith who it was.  A second glance had told her, and with face almost as white as the linen collar about her neck, she reeled forward, and would have fallen but for Victor, who caught her by the shoulder and sat her down beside his master.

Richard was far less excited than herself, inasmuch as he was prepared for the meeting and as she sank down with the folds of her grey traveling dress lying in his lap, he offered her his hand, and with the same old sunny smile she remembered so well, said to her,

“Do you not know me?”

“Yes,” she gasped, “but it takes my breath away.  I was not expecting you so soon.  I am so glad.”

He knew she was by the way her snowy fingers twined themselves around his own and by the fervent pressure of her lips upon his hand.

“Mam-ma’s tyin,” said Nina, and then Edith’s tears fell fast, dropping upon the broad hand she still held, which very, very gradually, but still intentionally drew hers directly beneath the green shade, and there Richard kept it, his thumb hiding the broad band of gold which told she was a wife.

It was a very small, white, pretty hand, and so perhaps he imagined, for he held it a long, long time, while he talked quite naturally of Arthur, of Grace, of the people of Shannondale, and lastly of her children.

“They crept into my heart before I knew it,” he said, releasing Edith’s hand and lifting Nina to his knee.  “They are neither of them much like you, my namesake says.”

This reminded Edith of the mysterious shade which puzzled her so much, and, without replying directly to him, she asked why it was worn.  Victor shot a quick, nervous glance at his master, who without the slightest tremor in his voice, told her that he had of late been troubled with weak eyes, and as the dust and sunlight made them worse, he had been advised to wear it while traveling as a protection.

“I shall remove it by and by, when I am rested,” he said.

And Edith hoped he would, for he did not seem natural to her with that ugly thing disfiguring him as it did.

When Hartford was reached Richard found an opportunity of whispering something to Victor, who replied,

“Tired find dusty.  Better wait, if you want a good impression.”

So, with a spirit of self-denial of which we can scarcely conceive Richard did wait, and the shade was drawn closely down as little Nina, grown more bold climbed up beside him, and poised upon one foot, her fat arm resting on his neck, played “peek-a-boo” beneath the shade, screaming at every “peek,” “I seen your eyes, I did.”