He comes to the door with a smile. Jane is brushing the fair, shining hair that is like a sea of ripples, and Cecil stretches out her hand with pretty eagerness, as if she shall lose him, after all. "Suppose I tie it so, and curl it after breakfast," proposes Jane. "Miss Cecil is so impatient." "Yes, that will do." It is beautiful, any way, he thinks. Then she dances around on one foot until her dress is put on, when she gives a glad bound. "But your pinafore! American children _do_ wear them," says Jane, in a rather uncertain tone. "I am a little English girl," is the firm rejoinder. "Then of course you must," responds papa. "And your hat! The sun is shining." Cecil gives a glad spring then, and almost drags her father down the wide stairs. A young colored lad is brushing off the porch, but the two go down on the path that is speckless and as hard as a floor. The lawn slopes slowly toward the river, broken by a few clumps of shrubbery, a summer-house covered with vines, and another resembling a pagoda, with a great copper beech beside it. There are some winding paths, and it all ends with a stone wall, as the shore is very irregular. There is a boat-house, and a strip of gravelly beach, now that the tide is out. Grandon turns and looks toward the house. Yes, it _is_ handsome, grand. Youth and age together did not make any blunder of it. There is the tower, that was to be his study and library and place of resort generally. What crude dreams he had in those days! Science and poesy, art and history, were all a sad jumble in his brain, and now he has found his life-work. He hopes that he may make the world a little wiser, raise some few souls up to the heights he has found so delightful. Cecil dances about like a fairy. She is at home amid green fields once more, for the ocean was to her a dreary desert, and the many strange faces made her uncomfortable. She is oddly exclusive and delicate, even chary about herself, but alone with her father she is all childish abandon. There is a stir about the house presently, and Grandon begins to retrace his steps. "Don't go," entreats Cecil. "My dear, we must have breakfast. Grandmamma and the aunties will be waiting." "Are they going to live there always!" with an indication of the fair head. "Yes, some of them." "And are we going to live there for ever and ever?" He laughs gayly. "I hope we will live there to a good old age." "And madame--must she stay there, too?" "Madame will stay for a little while. And Cecil must be kind and pleasant----" "I can't like her!" interrupts the child, petulantly. He studies her with some curiosity. Why should the gracious, beautiful woman be distasteful to her? "I don't really suppose she will care much," he replies, in a rather teasing spirit. "But if she doesn't, why should she want me to kiss her?" "I do not believe she will ask you again. You must not be rude to any one. And you must kiss grandmamma or the aunties if they ask you."