The guest was Mrs. Dr. Barrett, and she came one dreary day in November, unannounced and unexpected, her white puffs of hair just as smooth as ever, her mourning just as deep and her black eyes just as restless and eager as she walked up the avenue and looked curiously about her. She had accidentally stumbled upon Godfrey in New York while walking down Broadway, and recognizing him at once had seized him by the arm, and to his utter amazement, claimed him as her grandson by marriage. It was not in Godfrey’s nature to be other than polite to any woman, and so adroitly did Mrs. Barrett manage, that when at last he left her seated in the car which was to take her to Hampstead, he found himself out of pocket just ten dollars, which had gone for carriage hire, and lunch and stage fare, and ticket to Hampstead. “But then a fellow must do something for his _step-grandmother-in-law_,” he said to Tom Barton, who chanced to be in the city, and to whom he related his experience, adding that he hardly thought the worthy woman was expected at Schuyler Hill. Nor was she. But Mrs. Barrett was not one who cared particularly for the feelings of others. Regularly twice a year since her daughter’s marriage she had received money from Colonel Schuyler, and never in her life had she been more comfortable and free; but this did not satisfy her so long as she knew that across the sea was a luxurious home, which she felt she had a right to enjoy. It was more than six years now since her daughter’s marriage, and in all that time there had been no wish expressed to see her, no invitation for her to come, and she was tired of waiting and weary of her present idle life, while to do her justice there was in her heart a genuine desire to see her child’s face once more, and hear the sound of her voice. So, when her money came as usual in October, with a letter from Edith, who told of Emma’s marriage, and said that Julia was also gone, and she was alone with her husband, Arthur and Gertie, Mrs. Barrett’s decision was made, and giving up her pleasant rooms which she had occupied so long, she started for America, and arrived at Hampstead on a November day when the wind sighed drearily through the trees and rustled the dead leaves at her feet as she passed slowly up the avenue leading to Schuyler Hill. She had walked from the station, and taking the road which led past her old home, had paused a moment by the gate, looking at the pretty cottage and thinking of all that had happened since the day Abelard was carried through the gate up to the little cemetery she could see in the distance. Edith was out that afternoon, and only Gertie was at home when Mrs. Barrett rang and asked first for Mrs. Schuyler and then for Miss Westbrooke. “An old lady in black, with puffs of white hair,” the servant said to Gertie, who, without a thought as to who it could be, went down to meet the stranger.