“I’m truly thankful that you were born somewhere, Bethikins,” returned Uncle Jim. “It’s a fine old state, your Bay State. But ‘breathes there a man with soul so dead,’ you know, Bethie! You don’t?” he added, as Beth shook her head. “‘Who never to himself hath said: This is my own, my native land,’ is the rest of the quotation--Scott. And that applies to a little girl. There’s a flavor in the air we first breathed that we ‘may search through the wide world is ne’er met with elsewhere.’ I seem to be dropping into poetry like Silas Wegg! I’d better stop talking.” Beth chattered all the way, until they drew near to their destination. Then she became quiet and, as the approach to her town began to take on familiar aspects, to grow pale and tremulous. Her hand sought Aunt Alida’s, who held it fast. It surprised herself to find how much she wished to hold it fast, permanently: never to let little Beth slip away from her. It was a perfect April afternoon, warm, with openings in the warmth of spring coolness; curious little draughts of cool air, followed by warm ones as they skirted woodlands. The sun lay on the earth with a warmth that was a summons to all the flowers. Beth knew that in a day or two she and Janie would gather violets in the south field, back of Janie’s house. The car rolled into the town, more properly a village, with its easy motion that had been so steady and restful all through the journey. It attracted attention; it was a more magnificent car than usually came that way and it was one of the first to come that season. Beth sat up straight, leaning forward; by this time her left hand had sought Natalie’s, as her right had sought her aunt’s, and she was holding fast to them both, with a nervous clutch that betrayed her excitement. They passed people whom Beth knew, but they did not recognize her. Miss Tappan had kept the secret of her coming, so no one looked to see little Beth Bristead in the great tonneau, behind the impressive mulberry backs of the chauffeur and footman. Beth felt unreasonably disappointed. It seemed dreadful to have Mrs. Damon, who sold them butter, and Mr. Ranney, who might be called Aunt Rebecca’s lifelong grocer, go by without a smile for the child who had so often been sent to them on errands. At last, guided by Beth, the car turned into a shady street, with houses on either side somewhat withdrawn from it. It stopped at a brown house with a low gateway. The footman jumped down and opened the door of the tonneau. “I think you’d better go in alone, dear,” said Aunt Alida. “Your great-aunt will be so surprised it is better for her to see you before we meet her.” But precaution was too late. Aunt Rebecca came out on the piazza, seeing the car at her gate. Beth sprang out of the tonneau at the sight of her, forgetting everything but that this was coming home again and that was Aunt Rebecca, Aunt Rebecca, looking pale and considerably older, just as Miss Tappan had said.