"How long he has been away!" says Madame Lepelletier, with a soft half-sigh. She would like to believe that she had something to do with it, but the English wife stands rather in the way. "Yes; he was coming home as soon as his little girl was born, but then his wife died and he joined an exploring expedition, and has been rambling about the world ever since, with no bother of anything. How nice it must be to have plenty of money!" And Laura's sigh is in good earnest. "You are right there," adds Eugene, who is smoking out on the balcony. "Floyd, old chap, is to be envied. I wish I had been Aunt Marcia's pet, or even half favorite. Business is my utter detestation, I admit. I must persuade Floyd to change about." "And that makes me think of the wonderful changes here. Why, Grandon Park is a perfect marvel of beauty, and I left it an almost wilderness. I should never have known the place. But the location is really magnificent. Ten years have improved it beyond all belief. I suppose there is some very nice society?" "In the summer, yes, and yet every one is anxious to get away," returns Laura, with a short laugh. Marcia joins the circle and the harmony seems broken. Madame Lepelletier wonders why they so jar upon each other. She has been trained to society's suavity, and they seem quite like young barbarians. Floyd and his mother talk a little at the lower end of the room, then she proposes they shall take the library. "Or better still," says he, "get a shawl and let us have a turn outside. The moon is just coming up." She obeys with alacrity. They cross the sloping lawn almost down to the river's edge. Floyd lights a cigar, after learning that it will not be disagreeable. He glances up and down the river, flecked here and there with a drowsy sail or broken with the plash of oars. Over on the opposite shore the rugged rocks rise frowningly, then break in depressions, through which clumps of cedars shine black and shadowy. Why, he has not seen much in Europe that can excel this! His heart swells with a sense of possession. For the first time in his life his very soul thrills with a far-reaching, divine sense of home. "I am so glad to have you at last, Floyd," his mother says again, remembering her own perplexities. "Nothing could be done about the business until you came. Floyd," suddenly, "I hope you will not feel hurt at--at what your father thought best to do. Aunt Marcia provided for you." "Yes, nobly, generously. If you mean that my father divided the rest among you all, he only did what was right, just." There is no uncertain ring in the tone, and she is greatly relieved. "Poor father! I had counted on being a stay to him in his declining years, as I should have returned in any event in another year or two. I should like to have seen him once more."