"Indiana, this is Jennings. You’ve heard me speak of him. He’s been in the family since I was a child." Indiana’s blue eyes smiled into those of the old Scotchman. "How do you do, Jennings?" she said, with a friendly handshake. Jennings carried her hand, with a shaking motion, to his lips. "His lordship’s young wife," he murmured, looking with ecstatic delight into her face. "My mother, Jennings?" "Her leddyship’s well, yer lordship. Her leddyship’s in the library." He hurried before them, but Thurston rushed past him, carrying Indiana on his arm, his hand clasped on hers. They laughed back at the old man, and he echoed the laugh childishly, with tears in his eyes. "You can’t announce us, Jennings!" cried Thurston. Lady Canning was still standing, with stately repose, by the fire. There was no trace, on her calm face, of the agitation she had been suffering, beyond an expression of pleasurable anticipation—the only visible sign of feeling in which she would allow herself to indulge. "Mother!" "My dear son!" He held her in a prolonged embrace. When he finally released her, she applied a morsel of lace to her eyes. "My wife, mother," he said in a voice of immeasurable content and pride, placing Indiana in her arms. "Your daughter, Indiana." Lady Canning was conscious of holding a morsel of humanity in her arms and of pressing her lips to a childish cheek. Then, as she surveyed her, she received an impression of something very young and small, with the coloring of an apple-blossom, whose deep-blue eyes met hers, struggling between consciousness, laughter and tears. Realizing that her vague fears had no worse foundation than this childish creature, daintily costumed, her relief was so great that she took her in her arms again and pressed another kiss on her forehead. Though Thurston had been perfectly confident of the effect Indiana would produce, he was none the less delighted at this mark of favorable impression. "My dear child," said Lady Canning, "you must look upon me as a mother—you are still too young to be without one." In order to control her tears, Indiana bit her handkerchief, which she was nervously rolling in her hands. The difference between her mother’s last despairing kiss and the touch of Lady Canning’s calm lips, was too strong. "You no doubt wish to go to your apartments now, my dear," said Lady Canning, kindly. "Yes, I should," agreed Indiana with a little, nervous laugh. She was quite indifferent about going to her apartments just then, but there was such a sure assumption of her acquiescence in Lady Canning’s tone it was almost equivalent to an order. "Thurston, ring for Watson. We will have tea presently. You are longing for some tea, my dear, are you not?" "Yes," said Indiana, feeling that it was expected of her to say so.