That this dry shell of a man could be the father of our spontaneous lovely Kate was one of the things that none of the younger people around Kennedy Square could understand—­but then few of them had known her beautiful mother with her proud step and flashing eyes.

But it is not the punctilious, methodical Prim whom St. George wishes to see to-night; nor does he go through any of the formalities customary to the house.  There is no waiting until old Ben, the family butler in snuff-colored coat and silver buttons, shuffles upstairs or into the library, or wherever the inmates were to be found, there to announce “Massa George Temple.”  Nor did he send in his card, or wait until his knock was answered.  He simply swung back the gate until the old chain and ball, shocked at his familiarity, rattled itself into a rage, strode past the neatly trimmed, fragrant box, pushed open the door—­no front door was ever locked in the daytime in Kennedy Square, and few at night—­and halting at the bottom step, called up the silent stairs in a voice that was a joyous greeting in itself: 

“Kate, you darling! come down as quick as your dear little feet will carry you!  It’s Uncle George, do you hear?—­or shall I come up and bring you down in my arms, you bunch of roses?  It won’t be the first time.”  The first time was when she was a year old.

“Oh!—­is that you, Uncle George?  Yes,—­just as soon as I do up my back hair.”  The voice came from the top of the stairs—­a lark’s voice singing down from high up.  “Father’s out and—­”

“Yes—­I know he’s out; I met him on his way to the club.  Hurry now—­I’ve got the best news in the world for you.”

“Yes—­in a minute.”

He knew her minutes, and how long they could be, and in his impatience roamed about the wide hall examining the old English engravings and colored prints decorating the panels until he heard her step overhead and looking up watched her cross the upper hall, her well-poised, aristocratic head high in air, her full, well-rounded, blossoming body imaged in the loose embroidered scarf wound about her sloping shoulders.  Soon he caught the wealth of her blue-black hair in whose folds her negro mammy had pinned a rose that matched the brilliancy of her cheeks, two stray curls wandering over her neck; her broad forehead, with clearly marked eyebrows, arching black lashes shading lustrous, slumbering eyes; and as she drew nearer, her warm red lips, exquisite teeth, and delicate chin, and last, the little feet that played hide and seek beneath her quilted petticoat:  a tall, dark, full-blooded, handsome girl of eighteen with an air of command and distinction tempered by a certain sweet dignity and delicious coquetry—­a woman to be loved even when she ruled and to be reverenced even when she trifled.

She had reached the floor now, and the two arm in arm, he patting her hand, she laughing beside him, had entered the small library followed by the old butler bringing another big candelabra newly lighted.