Mary smiled, and, not daring to return his salutation lest she should incur a reprimand from the highest authority in the house for undue familiarity with the masculine part of it, made haste to disappear down a back stairway. Captain White shook himself, thereby scattering a shower of wet on the oil-cloth of the floor, hung up his cap, and walked down the hall to the dining-room. "I'll find them just the same as usual, I suppose," he muttered, giving a slap to his sleek head that always looked as if he had just dipped it in water, "same old table, same old chairs around it, same old fire, same old girl with same old stocking or same old death-book." He opened the door. Yes, there she sat, her thick hair parted decently in the middle, her black gown decently disposed about her portly figure, her lips decently compressed, her fingers clicking the needles of the knitting with which she invariably disciplined or amused herself during the successive evenings of her life, her eyes fixed on her son, who sat in a loose coat and carpet slippers, diligently reading the evening paper as Captain White had seen him read it a thousand times before. The very fire was crackling as it had crackled ever since he had had acquaintance with this hearthstone. He could even tell the hour of the evening by it, for Mrs. Prymmer from motives of economy always started it with wood but continued it with coal. It was now just eight o'clock, for the wood was nearly gone. A match had been touched to it at seven precisely, and at a quarter to eight a shovelful of coal had been lifted on it by the careful hand of his cousin. "Well, Micah," she said, deliberately, "you have got back." Captain White did not answer her. It did not seem worth while to confirm a statement that bore truth on the face of it, and moreover he, though a man possessing a fair amount of composure, was completely dumbfounded by his discovery of a curious addition to this hitherto contracted family circle. The big family lounge, commonly pushed away in a corner, was drawn up near the fire, and on it, comfortably surrounded by cushions, reclined a girl who was not a Rossignol girl, nor anything approaching to a Rossignol girl, as far as Captain White could make out. She had been reading and had fallen asleep over her book, and she lay like a beautiful statue while Justin and his mother were apparently paying no more attention to her than if she really were something without life. Captain White rubbed his hand across his eyes and looked again. The girl was still there, and, with a puzzled expression of face equivalent to a spoken "I give it up," he sat down beside the door, one of his peculiarities being a reluctance to approach a fire. "How are you, Micah?" said Justin, laconically. "First-rate," responded Captain White, "and how's yourself?" "All right." "You don't look it." "I've been away. I guess a long journey doesn't agree with me." "Where have you been?" "To California."