Lydia looked up at him with hot, sudden displeasure, she could not tell why. What had she to do with Isaac Oliver? But she was excited by the appearance of this stranger who bore such a familiar name, and she felt angry that he should be called a “cad.” She was in so strange a condition, so feverish, and restless, and impatient, that to be angry for some real cause was a luxury to her. She did not, for her part, give any pledge or make any reply, but seated herself in the carriage with a forlorn and partly fictitious feeling that this man, whom she had never (she thought) seen before, and knew nothing about, would be more near to her, if he were one of the Olivers, than these people with whom she had been so familiar, who had been her friends, and more than her friends, but who were about to drop her (she said to herself) next week, as if she had never belonged to them at all. They were all reminding her of this parting, keeping it before her, she thought, even old Sir John--without any sympathy for her, or regret to leave her, or perception of what the parting would be to her. Anybody from her own country, within her own circle of being, would be more to her, she said within herself, would understand her better, would feel more for her, than the friends who had been so kind, but who did not care. But the visit of the travelling party was contemplated with very much stronger feelings by the one of all concerned, who alone knew all about it, and understood the full importance of the meeting. Harry had been unable to keep himself from one startled look when he heard his sister’s name. “Liddy” first, which of itself roused him a little--he had not heard the north-country sound of that familiar name since he left the north country--and then Joscelyn. Who could she be? Could there be any Liddy Joscelyn but one? It was his mother’s name, and his little sister’s, whom he remembered with that tender partiality with which elder brothers and sisters think of the little one who is the pet of the family. Liddy had not been old enough to have come to the bar of fraternal judgment when he had left the White House. She was still a child, and he had been fond of her. They had all been fond of her. She had been the pet, sacred from the animadversion even of Tom and Will, who, being married, and separated from their home, were in some measure freed from the family prejudices. But Harry was not freed. He had been angry with all his belongings for all these years, but as soon as he heard her name his heart grew soft to little Liddy. Liddy Joscelyn! He went away from the inn full of excitement, saying over and over to himself those familiar, soft-sounding syllables, Liddy Joscelyn, Liddy Joscelyn. Could it really be that this pretty young woman, who had looked at him over Lady Brotherton’s shoulder, with such earnest eyes, was his little sister? For a long time he could think of nothing else but this, and took a long walk in an entirely different direction from