She was disappointed, poor girl; for to return some time to the old home and the old life had been the fond dream of the young, faithful heart in the long years of her exile and homesickness; and now to return and find all changed, even for the better, was a painful shock. Colonel de Crespigney knew it now, and could not forgive himself for not anticipating such an effect. “Do not look so grave, Marcel, or I shall think you never will forget my folly,” she pleaded. “Listen, now, and let me tell you something, Marcel! Seeing the dee-ar old place all freshened up, and decorated and changed into something else, was just as if, when I was looking for you, and expecting to see you as you used to look—why—instead of my dee-ar, old, black-bearded darkey of an uncle, I had found a golden-haired, rosy-cheeked young fairy prince! There! That expresses my feelings in regard to seeing the dee-ar old home changed into something else!” De Crespigney smiled; he felt pleased and flattered; he also understood her better and loved her more, as he remembered that she had always cherished a sweet, loyal love for old familiar friends and places. He suddenly recalled the days when he had first known her as an infant of three years old, when some one had broken the head of her doll, and he himself had bought her a splendid young lady of waxen mould with rosy cheeks and flaxen hair, and dressed in silk attire, how she had hugged her poor old headless dolly to her faithful little heart and refused to part with it in favor of the radiant new one. And later when she first arrived at the Promontory, bringing a little mongrel dog, who died soon after, and to comfort her he brought home a little white poodle, how sadly she turned away from the new claimant of her notice, murmuring, “Oh, uncle, I can’t love another little dog so soon,” though a few days afterwards she picked up the little poodle and petted him, muttering, “Poor Carlo, it wasn’t your fault that poor little Flora died, was it?” and loved him ever afterwards. About the same time, reading the story of “Beauty and the Beast,” she had sighed, and said, “If I had been Beauty I would have loved the dee-ar old Beast; I would not have wanted to have his head cut off to change him into anything else, not even a fairy prince!” All these traits of her childhood recurred to the mind of De Crespigney, as he listened to the little penitent’s frank confession. “I understand, dear heart! I understand perfectly,” he said, as he raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. She smiled radiantly on him, and then turned and looked about her, as if in search of other changes. Then her eyes fell upon the form of a young man seated on a rock, and apparently engaged in fishing. She bent forward and suddenly exclaimed: