Frances nodded her head reflectively. “Much you know about that yet, my son. Wait awhile, and I’ll enlighten you!” Delivering herself of this promise,--which was received by the boy with an impudent little shrug,--the girl sprang to the platform in a style strongly suggestive of past triumphs in her school gymnasium, and then proceeded to catch her brother by the shoulders and give him what she called “a proper look-over”. Austin stood the examination well. Though slightly built, he was broad of chest and straight of limb; his blue eyes were bright and clear; and the weakness of his mouth was usually discounted by the sunny smile which readily parted his lips. Nearly three years younger than his sister, and accustomed to look to her for companionship, guidance, and encouragement, Austin had found the months of their separation so real a trial that his joy in their present meeting was particularly demonstrative. He remembered in a flash of thought half a score of promising projects which had been allowed to lapse until Frances should come home from Haversfield College. And now Frances was here in front of him, and surveying him with the steady gray eyes he knew and truly loved--Frances herself, no whit spoiled by her two terms at the famous school for girls, though in Austin’s mind there had lurked some fears of long skirts, hair “done up”, and--worse than all!--airs of condescending superiority and adult wisdom. Frances did not look at all grown-up. She was just a healthy, happy lass of barely fourteen years; frankly preferring short frocks to long ones, and in no haste for the time when hair-dressing should become a troublesome solemnity. So far, life had made small demands on her individuality. At home, she had known no special duty except the care of Austin, who had been rather delicate in early childhood; at school, she had been one of many, fairly successful in her work, more than fairly successful at games and bodily exercises, and perhaps showing promise chiefly in a susceptibility to all those influences which tend to widen a young girl’s sympathies and draw out her intelligence. Frances had been fortunate in her recent experience--Haversfield is an excellent nursery for the best kind of girlhood. Its many house-mistresses are chosen by the Principal with extreme care; and Frances had been under the charge of Miss Cliveden, a clever, cultivated, and liberal-minded woman, whose training was quite as valuable for heart as for head. The brightest-witted, most thoughtful, and most generous pupils of Haversfield were proud to call themselves “Miss Cliveden’s girls”. “Is Mamma all right?” inquired Frances, releasing her brother after a little satisfied shake. “Right as she can be. Ten deep in tea-drinkings, and particular friends with all the world. No, not with all the world--with the most particular world of Woodend. She’s ‘At Home’ this afternoon, you know. First and third Thursdays, and all that twaddle--”