Roma gave up her burdens, including Owlet’s dog basket, and led Owlet up and down the platform to benefit by the balmy evening air. The train moved off on its westward journey and left them there. So prompt was Pompous that in less than fifteen minutes he came up and said: “All yeady to go now, mist’ess.” Roma followed him to the end of the platform at which the carriage stood—because it could come no nearer—and entered it. Pompous lifted the child in, shut the door, mounted to his seat on the box, and started his horse. Puck followed with all their baggage, in the wagon, and so they drove on under the starlit sky, along the five-mile road, up and down the heavily wooded hills and dales that lay between Goeberlin and Goblin Hall. Roma looked out as they approached the house, but she could only see the dim outline of the roof and walls and three or four bright lights gleaming through the windows, upstairs and down. When the carriage stopped before the front the door was opened, showing the interior of the lighted hall and the tall, solemn figure of “Serious,” standing on the threshold. Owlet was now so sound asleep that she had to be lifted from the carriage and carried into the house, in the arms of Pompous. “Do not wake the child, if you can possibly help it. Lay her on the broad lounge in the parlor,” said Roma as she stepped from the carriage. “How do you do, Ceres?” she cheerfully inquired of the kill-joy who stood there to receive her. “Fanky, miss, I do as well as I kin in sich a mis’able worl’ as dis. An’ how do yo’ do yo’se’f? An’ so yo’s got home sabe, w’ich is mo’ dan I looked fo’. An’ did Mis’er and Missis Gray an’ de chillun get drowned at sea, goin’ to furrin countries?” “Oh, no. They arrived safe, and were all quite well when I heard from them, a week ago.” “Well, dat’s mo’ dan I ’spected, too,” said Serious, in the tone of saying, “And more than they deserved.” “Well, come in, young mist’ess, or yo’ll be gettin’ ob yo’ deaf ob col’.” “What! On this fine April night?” “Ap’il weader is ’ceitful, young mist’ess—moughty ’ceitful,” said the sorrowful philosopher, as she opened the door of the oak parlor, where a pleasant fire was burning and a neat supper table was set. An armchair was placed near the hearth. A broad lounge stood against the wall, and on it lay Owlet, fast asleep. Pompous had left the room to help Puck to bring in the baggage and to stable the horses. “I do not think I want supper, Ceres,” said Roma, as she drew off her gloves, took off her bonnet, and sank down into the armchair. “An’ now who de name ob de Lor’ is dis chile?” demanded Serious, for the first time noticing Owlet. “A little girl whom I’m going to take care of for a while,” answered Roma. “Whose chile is she, den, shove off on to yo’ mist’ess?” “She is an orphan.” “Oh, Lor’! I hope yo’ ain’t gwine to ’dop’ her, young mist’ess.” “Unless her grandmother, who is a wealthy English woman, should claim her, I certainly shall.”