“What did you talk about?” asked Marcia, requiring an account of his enjoyment from him the next morning, after Bartley had gone down to his work. “Mostly about you, I guess,” said the Squire, with a laugh. “There was a large sandy-haired young woman there--” “Miss Kingsbury,” said Marcia, with vindictive promptness. Her eyes kindled, and she began to grow rigid under the coverlet. “Whom did _she_ talk with?” “Well, she talked a little with me; but she talked most of the time to the young man. She engaged to him?” “No,” said Marcia, relaxing. “She's a great friend of the whole family. I don't know what they meant by telling you it was to be just a family party, when they were going to have strangers in,” she pouted. “Perhaps they didn't count her.” “No.” But Marcia's pleasure in the affair was tainted, and she began to talk of other things. Her father stayed nearly a week, and they all found it rather a long week. After showing him her baby, and satisfying herself that he and Bartley were on good terms again, there was not much left for Marcia. Bartley had been banished to the spare room by the presence of the nurse; and he gave up his bed there to the Squire, and slept on a cot in the unfurnished attic room; the cook and a small girl got in to help, had the other. The house that had once seemed so vast was full to bursting. “I never knew how little it was till I saw your father coming down stairs,” said Bartley. “He's too tall for it. When he sits on the sofa, and stretches out his legs, his boots touch the mop-board on the other side of the room. Fact!” “He won't stay over Sunday,” began Marcia, with a rueful smile. “Why, Marcia, you don't think I want him to go!” “No, you're as good as can be about it. But I hope he won't stay over Sunday.” “Haven't you enjoyed his visit?” asked Bartley. “Oh, yes, I've enjoyed it.” The tears came into her eyes. “I've made it all up with father; and he doesn't feel hard to me. But, Bartley--Sit down, dear, here on the bed!” She took his hand and gently pulled him down. “I see more and more that father and mother can never be what they used to be to me,--that you're all the world to me. Yes, my life is broken off from theirs forever. Could anything break it off from yours? You'll always be patient with me, won't you? and remember that I'd always rather be good when I'm behaving the worst?” He rose, and went over to the crib, and kissed the head of their little girl. “Ask Flavia,” he said from the door. “Bartley!” she cried, in utter fondness, as he vanished from her happy eyes. The next morning they heard the Squire moving about in his room, and he was late in coming down to breakfast, at which he was ordinarily so prompt. “He's packing,” said Marcia, sadly. “It's dreadful to be willing to have him go!” Bartley went out and met him at his door, bag in hand. “Hollo!” he cried, and made a decent show of surprise and regret.