Taken as a whole, she was frightfully and fashionably dressed, and very much pleased with her _tout ensemble_, and certain she should completely overawe and confound the plain woman of forty, who was momentarily expected. The barouche had been sent for the colonel according to his orders, and Godfrey’s buggy had been sent for him, as he might bring a friend with him, his telegram said. But Robert Macpherson was not quite ready to leave New York, and preferred coming to the country a few days later. So Godfrey drove home alone, choosing a shorter road than that taken by the barouche, and reaching the house some ten minutes earlier than his father. “Oh, girls, girls, there is Godfrey!” Emma cried, as she caught sight of her brother driving up to the rear of the house; and rushing out to meet him she threw her arms around him and burst into tears. “Why, Emma, you dear little goose,” he said, as he bent his tall figure down to kiss her, “what are you crying about? Sorry to get your scamp of a brother back, eh?” “No, no, Godfrey. I’m so glad to have you, only I dread that woman! Is she so very horrid?” “Horrid! Who horrid?” Godfrey asked, while every muscle of his face twitched with suppressed mirth. “Do you mean the new mother? You must not mind her looks; beauty is only skin deep, and she is like a singed cat, better than she looks. You are sure to like her. Ah, Julia, my darling, how like a sister of charity you look!” he continued, as he released Emma, and kissing his other sister affectionally, he wound an arm around each of the girls, and walked to the house, where Alice was waiting for him, and scanning him curiously. “He certainly has improved in looks, and there is quite a foreign air about him, and his clothes are Paris made,” she thought, and her spirits rose proportionately as she advanced leisurely to meet him. “Ah, Mademoiselle Alice,” he exclaimed. “_Comment vous portez vous_,” and kissing her loudly on both cheeks he continued: “_Que pensez-vous de cela?_ Doesn’t it _smack_ of foreign travel?” Alice had not quite expected this, but the French delighted her, though she inly pronounced the accent horrid, and the hearty kisses pleased her, even if they were wet and loud, and she blushed very becomingly, and called him a “dear, naughty boy,” and kept hold of his hand until he freed it from her, thinking to himself that she was unusually gushing, and not a whit pretty either. “By George, Allie,” he began, as his eyes rested on her hair. “No, I don’t mean that. I’ve quit slang,” he added, with a thought of Gertie Westbrooke; “but, Allie, what _is_ that on the top of your head? It looks like the door-knob, and makes me think of that picture of William Tell’s boy with the big apple on his head. Got a story above the style this time. Should think you’d take cold in the back of your neck. They don’t wear it so in _Par-ee_.”