"The forgiving father spoke of the penitent prodigal on his home-coming as, 'my son who was dead and is alive again,' and to the elder who had never strayed as, 'thy brother.' But this last had no thought of tenderness for him who lost all and had returned hungry, penniless, destitute. It was not 'my brother' with him, but 'thy son.' Poor Joyce! Homeless, orphaned, hungering just for love, is nothing to my wife but 'your niece,' when she speaks of her to me. Three days hence will be her twenty-first birthday, too; she came here in March, and this is nearly the end of June. I thought that a girl so sweet in herself must win the good-will of my wife and girls, but all she has received is a bare shelter, grudgingly permitted rather than given during three weary months." When Joyce's birthday morning came there were no costly gifts for her such as her cousins were accustomed to receive. Mrs. Evans remarked coldly— "So it is your birthday, Joyce. Of course, we all wish you many happy returns of it." Her cousins echoed "Of course," as they seated themselves at the breakfast table, and Joyce replied, "Thank you." "And you are actually twenty-one," said Mrs. Evans. "I suppose you would expect a present of an ornamental kind, but, under the circumstances, something useful will be better. The girls are going to leave off mourning entirely now. Three months is quite long enough for a mere connection by marriage, and many people would not wear it more than half the time." "Many would not wear it at all, unless—" Joyce began a sentence but could not finish it, for her heart was too full to permit her to continue without breaking down utterly. "Unless the connection had lived quite near them, and every one knew of it. Was that what you were going to say?" asked Mrs. Evans. "No; I meant something very different, but I will not trouble you with it now. Only, please do not think I expected any present. I neither looked nor wished for any." "But you are going to have one," replied Mrs. Evans, in an unusually gracious tone. "As I said, my girls are leaving off their mourning, and I intend you to have their simpler dresses. Black silks and satins they will not part with. Those are useful always, but their worst are of beautiful material and—" "Quite too good for me," said Joyce. "No, no. They will look very nice, but not too handsome. Russell will show you how to alter them and you can sit in her room so as to be near whilst you are at work. Afterwards, I have no doubt you will be glad to render a little assistance in remodelling some of your cousins' gowns which had to be put aside, in a manner, on your account." Mrs. Evans thought she had managed a somewhat delicate matter with great tact and success. She had planned to turn Joyce's time and good taste to account on behalf of herself and her daughters, from the first day that the girl, pale and worn with watching and weeping, arrived at The Chase.