It was dusk when I returned. A servant preceded me into the drawing-room, and lit the lamps, and made up the fire, throwing on another log or two. I sat down in one of the big, soft armchairs and began to turn over Christmas numbers――the _Graphic_, the _London News_, _Holly Leaves_――looking at Caldecott’s, Sambourne’s, and Fred Barnard’s drawings. I began to read a story by Bret Harte. It was extraordinarily nice to be here again. This dear old house, how I loved it! The huge wood fire, the roomy depth of my armchair, the soft, thick carpet, all the surroundings of pleasantness and comfort, appealed to me after my prolonged and reluctant experience of the McAllisters. The fragrant China tea that was brought in to me tasted more deliciously than anything I had ever tasted before, and when I had finished my story (“The Chatelaine of Burnt Ridge,” I think it was called) and the servant had cleared away the tea-things, I sat and dozed. I had asked after Miss Dick, but of course she had gone home for Christmas. I was really to be alone this time――just myself and Mrs. Carroll. As I sat there, looking into the fire, I felt that it would have been nicer of me to have gone home on this, the evening of my arrival, but six o’clock, our tea hour, had struck ten minutes ago, and still I had not budged from my chair. Curious thoughts, thoughts I should have been ashamed to tell anybody, came to me unbidden, and for the first time. It made a tremendous difference just who happened to be one’s father, I reflected; and I thought of how the Dales were Mrs. Carroll’s nearest relatives. “She likes me better than anybody else,” I said to myself. “If I were by myself she would adopt me. All this――the house――everything will belong one day to somebody else; but to whom?... The house?” ... And I remembered she did not care for Gerald, and that Gerald did not in the least try to make her alter her opinion. Probably he had only come over last summer because his people had insisted on it. All at once I realized that these speculations were not particularly charming, and tried to put them from me. At the same time I heard the sharp sound of a horse’s hoofs on the frozen ground, then the crunch of gravel under carriage wheels, and I knew Mrs. Carroll had returned. She opened the door and came straight to me, smiling and holding out her hand. “You’ve grown so big,” she said, lifting her thick veil, “I don’t know whether you want to be kissed or not, but I think I’ll risk it.” She kissed me, and then held me at arm’s length to look at me. She moved me a little so that the lamp-light fell on my face. “My dear child,” she asked, with a sudden anxiety, “aren’t you well? How did you get those black lines under your eyes? You can’t be getting enough sleep. Have you been working too hard?” “No,” I answered, “but I was up late last night.”