They were busily engaged in their various employments. Susan was making up flannel shirts for the winter, assisted by the three little girls, who were hemming for her. Ann Whitlock was knitting yarn socks for coming cold weather, old Monica was sewing carpet rags, and Em. seated at the window which commanded the mountain pass leading to The Breezes, was carefully working the buttonholes in the otherwise finished shirts. Suddenly she called out: “Oh, mother, what do you think? There is a carriage coming down the mountain road toward the house! Such a handsome carriage, with such fine horses and liveried servants! Whose can it be, do you think?” “Lord knows!” exclaimed Susan, as she started, dropping her work, and rushed to the window, followed by all the family, to see the unprecedented sight of a carriage coming to the solitary manor-house. They crowded before the two windows of that end of the room and gazed with wonder upon the phenomenon. It was certainly a very handsome, close carriage, drawn by a splendid pair of silver-gray horses, and driven by a stout, gray-haired negro coachman in livery. It wound down the mountain road, turned into the house drive, and finally drew up before the main entrance of the old hall. A footman got down from behind and knocked at the door. “The idea of anybody knocking at that empty old house! It’s awful, it’s ghostly, and one wouldn’t be astonished if a ghost was to open the door at last!” exclaimed Susan Palmer, as she left the sitting-room and went out of her own house door to meet the visitors, whoever they might chance to be. The women and children stared through one of the windows to see what was coming of this arrival. Em. gazed through the other, hoping some news of—well, of one Ronald Bruce, in whom she took some interest. She saw her mother go up the front steps of the old manor-house to the still persistently knocking footman and seem to explain to him the utter futility of his exertions and the total impossibility of receiving any response from a closed-up and deserted house. She then saw her, followed by the footman, walk up to the door of the carriage and speak to some one within. Finally she saw the carriage door open and a lady alight and join her mother. As they walked towards the old house Em. had a good view of the lady’s face and form. She was a tall, slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, still beautiful, though passed the prime of life, for she seemed from forty to forty-five years of age. She was richly dressed in black, but not in mourning, and a handsome cashmere shawl fell gracefully from her shoulders. But what took Em.’s breath as the stranger drew nearer was her wondrous likeness to Ronald Bruce. “She is his mother! I know that beautiful and queenly woman is his mother,” said Em. to herself in breathless interest, as the lady and her conductress approached.