Shortly after twelve o’clock of this eventful Saturday in November the rain abated somewhat, and at three, when the train arrived upon which Mr. Abbott was expected, it had actually ceased for the time being at least. The girls were in the parlor, Katherine at the piano, and Honor with a bit of work in her hands. She had revived somewhat, and sat curled up in a corner of the divan which occupied the western window. There was never much light in the parlor of Glen Arden even on a clear day, for the trees grew so thick near the house. Mr. Starr and his father before him had loved each individual tree, and many of them had been planted with their own hands, usually upon some occasion for family rejoicing. The love of their trees was a family heritage. Victoria was on her knees before the hearth, coaxing into a blaze the logs which had been heaped there. With each puff of the bellows a small flame leaped up, lighting her face and dancing before her intently gazing brown eyes. Vic was not considered to be as pretty as Honor or Katherine, but already a fair amount of character was depicted in her face. Her features were too irregular for beauty, but her hair was pretty. There was not much of it, for it was so curly that it had never grown beyond her shoulders, but its color of reddish gold was very striking, and in the firelight this afternoon it looked like a golden halo which framed her flushed face. No one knew yet in just which direction Victoria’s character would develop, but her family had a latent conviction that she would “be something,” for in many ways she was so unlike other people. Peter and Sophy had gone to the train to meet Mr. Abbott, who was a prime favorite with them all, and presently they were seen coming along the grassy path, which led under the trees across the lawn directly from the little station, and was a much shorter course than to follow the road. “Well, here you all are!” said Mr. Abbott, when he had divested himself of his mackintosh in the hall and had come into the parlor. “Every one of you; and Vic has made a grand fire to cheer the wanderer and the wayfarer this rainy day. Nasty weather, this! Honor, how did you get such a cold? You must take care of it, child. I don’t like those pale cheeks.” “How good you are to come out such a day, Mr. Abbott!” said Honor, as she drew forward an arm-chair for her guest. “Just as good as you can be. We want to see you so much, and were on the point of telegraphing to you when we heard of your message to us.” “Ah, that is good!” said he, leaning forward and warming his hands at the blaze. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of about sixty-five, with gray hair and beard, and kindly eyes. The Starrs all loved him dearly, and he had been their father’s most valued friend. “I like to come where I am wanted,” he continued, “and I am always glad to come here. Dear me, though, I can’t get used to it without your father.”