as full of poetry and dramatic life as ever. The stream still looked bold and rapid, the village friendly, nestling about the church and over the bridge. “It is not a bit like Italy,” said Liddy, to her brother. He felt the sharpness of the morning air as he never would have done had he stayed among the Fells. “No, you can be quite confident on that subject,” Harry said. “But it is just as fine as ever,” cried Lydia, with a little enthusiasm. “It is not small nor contracted, nor ugly, as I feared. It is finer than it used to be. These are real hills, after all; and it is so broad, and so pure, and such a delightful air. What would you give in Tuscany for air like that?” “We should die of it in a month,” Harry said, buttoning his furred coat at the throat. Lydia was almost angry. He had been there so long, he had got choke full of Italian prejudice. But she was thankful, very thankful, to find that the country-side was still pleasant in her own eyes. And now they drive through the village, one or two early risers looking with expectant faces out of the windows and waving their hands to her as she passes, all with a look of surprise at the strange gentleman in his fur coat, quietly smoking his cigar behind: and the river is crossed, and they come within sight of the White House. Well! there was no doubt it looked small: she had been sure it must look small, grey and homely, and undistinguished, scarcely discernible in its whiteness, which was grey, like everything here, from the slope of the Fell-side. But Lydia had no time to make remarks of this description to herself, for immediately at the door there appeared a slim and tremulous figure, with clasped hands, looking out; and she gave a cry of uncontrollable joy and excitement, and sprang down, almost before the carriage stopped, from her seat, and into the arms of her mother. No, no! there was no change there! For a moment all her depression and heaviness, and sense of guilt and baseness, in the thought that her return was no pleasure to her, all melted away in real natural happiness to see that worn face, and feel the clasp of those tremulous arms again. “Oh, Liddy, my darling! it’s been long, long! but here I have you again, my own!” “Oh, mother! why did I ever leave you?” cried the girl, and they clung together as if they would never part. Mrs. Joscelyn had no eyes for anything but her child. She was about to lead her in with her arm round her. “They will all be out in a minute, Liddy; but never mind, my pet, you’ll see them later, and they’ll bring in your boxes and all your things. Come in, come in, you must be tired with your night’s journey--and let me look at you; I want no more, but just to look at you, you’re better than Italy to me.” “Mother,” Lydia said, holding back, “I have brought some one with me--a gentleman; you must give a welcome to him too.”