About three o’clock in the afternoon the train reached Morristown, and springing out on the platform, Marjorie soon spied Grandma Sherwood’s carriage there to meet them.  Old Moses was still in charge of the horses, as he had been ever since Marjorie could remember, and in a moment she heard a hearty voice cry, “Oh, there you are!” and there was Uncle Steve waiting for them on the platform.

Uncle Steve was a great friend of Marjorie’s, and she flew to greet him almost before he had time to welcome her mother.  Then in a few moments the luggage was looked after, and they were all in the carriage, rolling away toward Haslemere.

Marjorie chatted away like a magpie, for she had many questions to ask Uncle Steve, and as she was looking out to renew acquaintance with old landmarks along the road, the drive to the house seemed very short, and soon they were turning in at the gate.

Haslemere was not a large, old-fashioned farm, but a fair-sized and well-kept country place.  Grandma Sherwood, who had been a widow for many years, lived there with her son Stephen.  It was like a farm, because there were chickens and ducks, and cows and horses, and also a large garden where fresh vegetables of all sorts were raised.  But there were no grain fields or large pasture lands, or pigs or turkeys, such as belong to larger farms.  The drive from the gate up to the house was a long avenue, shaded on both sides by beautiful old trees, and the wide expanse of lawn was kept as carefully mowed as if at a town house.  There were flower beds in abundance, and among the trees and shrubbery were rustic seats and arbors, hammocks and swings, and a delightful tent where the children loved to play.  Back of the house the land sloped down to the river, which was quite large enough for delightful boating and fishing.

The house was of that old-fashioned type which has two front doors and two halls, with large parlors between them, and wings on either side.  A broad veranda ran across the front, and, turning both corners, ran along either side.

As they drove up to the house, Grandma Sherwood was on the piazza waiting for them.  She was not a very old lady, that is, she was not of the white-haired, white-capped, and silver-spectacled variety.  She was perhaps sixty years old, and seemed quite as energetic and enthusiastic as her daughter, if perhaps not quite so much so as her granddaughter.

Marjorie sprang out of the carriage, and flew like a young whirlwind to her grandmother’s arms, which were open to receive her.

“My dear child, how you have grown!”

“I knew you’d say that, Grandma,” said Marjorie, laughing merrily, “and, indeed, I have grown since I was here last.  Just think, that was three years ago!  I’m almost twelve years old now.”

“Well, you are a great girl; run in the house, and lay off your things, while I speak to your mother.”

Marjorie danced into the house, flung her coat and gloves on the hall rack, and still holding her kitten, went on through to the kitchen, in search of Eliza the cook.