"There!" the mother exclaims suddenly, then rising, hurries out on the balcony. A carriage has turned into the drive, it sweeps around the gravelled walk with a crunching sound, and the beautiful bays are drawn up at the very edge of the wide stone steps with a masterly hand. "Here we are!" cries a young man of one or two and twenty. "There was a slight accident to the down train and a detention. And I absolutely did not know Floyd!" A tall, finely formed man of thirty or so springs out with an elastic step and clasps Mrs. Grandon in his arms. "My dear, dear mother!" is all that is said for a moment, and their lips meet with a tenderness that comforts the mother's heart. Then he looks a little uncertainly at the two behind her. "This is Laura, the child when you went away. It is almost nine years since you have seen her. And Marcia." "How odd to be introduced to your own brother!" laughs Laura. "But, Floyd, you look like a Turkish pasha or an Arabian emir." And she eyes him with undisguised admiration. Gertrude now crawls slowly out in a long white cashmere robe, with a pale blue fleecy wrap about her shoulders. She looks tall and ghostly, and her brother's heart fills with pity, as he seems more closely drawn to her than to the others. Then there is a curious little halt, and with one accord they glance toward the carriage. Floyd flushes under all his wealth of bronze. "Oh," he says, suddenly, "I have brought you an old friend. I could not bear to leave her in a great city among strangers, and promised her a welcome with you. Indeed, I do not believe she has any 'nearer of kin,' after all." They all take a step forward, still in wonder. Floyd hands her out,--a very elegant woman, who is one handsome and harmonious line, from the French hat down to the faultless kid boot. "I told Mr. Grandon it would be awkward and out of order," she says in a slow, melodious voice that has a peculiar lingering cadence. "But he is most imperious," and her smile dazzles them. "And you must pardon me for allowing myself to be persuaded. It was so tempting to come among friends." Clearly she is not his wife now, whatever she may be in the future. Mrs. Grandon draws a breath of relief, and there is a pleasant confusion of welcome. "Yes, I told her such scruples were foolish," says Floyd, in a straightforward way that is almost abrupt. Then turning to the carriage, adds, "And here is my little English daughter, Cecil!" "O Floyd! what a lovely child! Does she really belong to you?" And Laura glances from one to the other, then dashes forward and clasps Cecil, who shrinks away and clings to her father. "She is rather shy," he says, half proudly, half in apology; but Laura, who does not care a fig for children in general, kisses Cecil in spite of resistance. "Mother, I have added to your dignity by bringing home a granddaughter." Then, with a tender inflection, "This is grandmamma, Cecil."