There was something so aggravating in her tone that it checked the apology on the lips of the belated girl, and made her toss her head angrily. "Mary," repeated her mistress, warningly, "if this happens again I shall consider it my duty to dismiss you without a character." The maid hurried up-stairs, her back respectful, her face working vigorously as she made mouths at an imaginary mistress in front of her. Mrs. Prymmer was about to follow her when her attention was caught by a sound of sleigh-bells coming from the snowy street. The old stone house, in common with most of its neighbours, was perched on a bank some distance from the street, and was approached by several flights of steps cut into the terraces before it. A sleigh was drawn up to the pavement below, and slowly descending from it was her son, whom she had supposed to be in California. She held her breath with pleasure. She had got him back again, her one and only child, her son by her first marriage,--young Justin Mercer, junior deacon in the church of the United Brethren, the hope of the older members of the flock and the model of the rising generation. In unbounded pride she noted his firm step, his unruffled appearance, the uprightness of his figure, and the cool flash of the eye behind the glasses that he always wore. Instead of looking like one arriving home from a journey, he had rather the appearance of one just about to leave home, and as calmly as if he had seen her a few hours before he bent his tall figure to bestow a filial embrace upon her. In a sudden upsurging of maternal affection she responded warmly and involuntarily, until the remembrance of his abrupt departure made her draw back and survey him silently. "Are you not glad to have me back?" he asked, with a slight smile. "Yes, though your going away was none of the pleasantest," she said, in an injured voice, while with the tips of her fingers she arranged on her temples the thick crimped hair slightly disturbed by his caress. "I am sorry for it, mother," he said, with the same curious smile, "and I regret to state that, unpleasant as it was, you may find it was not equal to my return." "What do you mean?" she said, peevishly, "and why doesn't that man fetch in your things?" "I told him to hold his horses until I came back. I have a present for you," and he turned and went down the steps while his mother returned to the shelter of the porch. Suddenly she became as rigid as the door-post behind her. The present was taking on the shape of all things in the world most hateful to her. A young girl of medium height was coming up the steps, and bending over her in a protecting attitude was her son Justin.