The young man lingered a moment as if there was something more he wished to add, but left the room without saying it. A minute later he was running as fast as the gale would let him along the avenue toward his own house, and in a very short time Mr. Cabot saw a pair of horses with a covered buggy, its leather apron well up in front, come dashing down the avenue from the opposite house. Amid fountains of mud the little horses wheeled into the road, trotted swiftly toward the village and out of sight. An hour and a half later the same horses, bespattered and dripping, drew up at the door. Amos got out first, and holding the reins with one hand, assisted Molly with the other. From the expression on the two faces it was evident their cheerfulness was more than a match for the fiercest weather. Mr. Cabot might perhaps have been ashamed to confess it, but his was a state of mind in which this excess of felicity annoyed him. He felt a touch of resentment that another, however youthful and attractive, should have been taken into her confidence, while he was not even notified of her arrival. But she received a hearty welcome, and her impulsive, joyful embrace almost restored him to a normal condition. A few minutes later they were sitting in the library, she upon his lap recounting the events that caused her unexpected return. Ned Elliott was quite ill when she got there, and last night the doctor pronounced it typhoid fever; that of course upset the whole house, and she, knowing her room was needed, decided during the night to come home this morning. Such was the substance of the narrative, but told in many words, with every detail that occurred to her, and with frequent ramifications; for the busy lawyer had always made a point of taking a very serious interest in whatever his only child saw fit to tell him. And this had resulted in an intimacy and a reliance upon each other which was very dear to both. As Molly was telling her story Maggie came in from the kitchen and handed her father a telegram, saying Joe had just brought it from the post-office. Mr. Cabot felt for his glasses and then remembered they were over on his desk. So Molly tore it open and read the message aloud. HON. JAMES CABOT, DALEFORD, CONN. _I leave for home this afternoon by the one-forty train._ MARY CABOT. “Why, papa, it is my telegram! How slow it has been!” “When did you send it?” “I gave it to Sam Elliott about nine o’clock this morning, and it wouldn’t be like him to forget it.” “No, and probably he did not forget it. It only waited at the Bingham station a few hours to get its breath before starting on a six-mile walk.” But he was glad to know she had sent the message. Suddenly she wheeled about on his knee and inserted her fingers between his collar and his neck, an old trick of her childhood and still employed when the closest attention was required. “But how did you know I was coming?”