The autumn had just flashed its beauties on the forest trees, when Mr. Wyman and Dawn drew near their home.  It was sunset when they reached the little station at L—­and saw their carriage waiting, and Martin, their faithful servant, holding Swift.  A bright face peeped out from a corner of the carriage.  One bound to the platform, and Florence and Dawn were clasped in each other’s arms.  Tears sprang to Hugh’s eyes as he held her hand and read in her happy face that all was well with herself and friends.  The old horse even gave them a kindly greeting, turning his head and looking upon the joyous group, then pawing the ground as if anxious to take them to their home.  They were not long in catching the hint, and soon Martin gave Swift the reins, and he pranced along as though his burden weighed no more than a feather.

“Who do you think is at our house?” inquired Florence.

“I have been too long away from yankee land to ‘guess’; tell me at once, Florence.”

“Miss Weston, whom we met at the sea-shore.”

Dawn held up both hands with delight.

“Why did you not mention it in your last letter?”

“Because she arrived since I wrote.”

“I hope she is to stay awhile with us,” said Dawn.

“We shall need all the balancing power we can bring to offset our enthusiasm.  Do you not think so, Florence?” asked Mr. Wyman.

“I do, indeed.  I expect Dawn’s earnestness will kindle such desires among these home-loving people, that by next spring, all L—­will embark for Europe.”

“Some fuel will not ignite,” said Dawn, casting a mischievous glance at Florence.

“I think foreign travel has injured my pupil’s manners,” remarked Mrs. Temple, assuming an air of dignity.

“Yes, you must take her in charge immediately,” answered her father.  “But here we are at our own gate.  Stop, Martin,” and with a bound he sprang from the carriage.  He could sit no longer.  The familiar trees which his own hand had planted, spread their branches as though to welcome his return.  Brilliant flowers flashed smiles of greeting.  The turf seemed softer, and more like velvet than he had ever seen it; the marble statues on the lawn more elegant than all the beautiful things he had looked upon while away.  Some hand had trailed the vines over the pillars of the house; the birds sang, and the air seemed full of glad welcomings.  The good, honest face of Aunt Susan met them at the hall door, and a warm, hearty shake of the hand was the greeting of each.

Flowers everywhere,—­pendant from baskets, and grouped in vases; vines everywhere,—­laid as by a summer breeze, on marble busts and statuettes; blossoms everywhere:-but where was she whose thoughtfulness and taste was made manifest in all these?

Impatiently he passed to the drawing-room, then to the library, and a feeling of blank disappointment rose in his breast, for she he so much expected to see, was not there to greet him.