But Annie was not, and a furtive tear told him so. He kissed her pretty little face that the yachting trip had bronzed. “Don’t cry, dear. Do you remember our last journey on this line, Annie, when you were so frightened because I jumped in, and wanted me to get out at the next station? And what a long time it was before I could make you leave off crying! But you have nothing to cry about now, you know, and I want you to look your best when we get to the station, that everybody may say what a pretty little wife I’ve brought home.” But there was nothing in this speech soothing to Annie, who looked anything but her best when they did steam into Beckham station. Sir George was on the platform to meet them, with a dog-cart waiting outside, and Harry felt disgusted and angry with his wife, when logically he should have felt glad, as he saw by his brother’s first glance at her that he thought her appearance much changed for the worse. George drove, and Annie sat beside him, while Harry got up behind with the groom. She was not very entertaining to-day, though she tried hard to be so; but there was something pathetic to George in her attempts to be lively, and the very tones of her soft voice had a charm in themselves to him, so that he was touched, and listened to her with a quiet kindliness in his manner which made much greater impression upon her than the compliments and tender tones he had used to her before her marriage. “I hope you don’t so very much mind having to come and live at the Grange. We will all try to make you happy,” he took the opportunity of saying when Harry’s voice, in hot argument with the groom, rose loudly enough to drown the _tête-à-tête_ in front. She looked up at him gratefully, with the too ready tears in her eyes. “Thank you; I am sure you will,” she said, gently. Words better left unsaid to the heartsore and neglected little wife rose to his lips; but her straightforwardness and a lull in the conversation at the back checked them--for the present. She treasured up those few words of kindness and welcome, all the more carefully that the greetings she received from the rest of the family were cruelly cold. Lady Braithwaite and her daughter held out icy hands to her; Stephen had evidently taken sides with them; Wilfred was kind, but rather indifferent; and William, the youngest, was restrained by a very needless fear of exciting Harry’s jealousy from showing the warmth he really felt toward the sad-looking little lady who had made such a delightful play-fellow.