"No, for it will be only a mockery; I shall not be able to put my arms round him; he won't kiss me." "Cecilia," called the judge, his voice ringing out happily, "everything is ready now, and Cesh is restive." Cicely gave one of her sudden little laughs. "Poor grandpa! he is so frantic with joy that he even says 'Cesh,'--though he loathes abbreviations!" Secession, the mule, started on his leisurely walk towards Romney. In the same lighted doorway where Eve had been received upon her first arrival, now appeared again the tall figure of Miss Sabrina. The poor lady was crying. "Oh, my darling Cicely, what sorrow!" she said, embracing her niece fondly. As they entered the hall: "Oh, my darling Cicely, what a home-coming for you! And to think--" More tears. As they came into the lighted parlor: "Oh, my darling Cicely--What! no mourning?" This last in genuine surprise. Cicely closed the door. She stood in the centre of the room. "This is not a charnel-house, Sabrina. No one is to speak to me of graves. As to mourning, I shall not wear an inch of it; you may wear as many yards as you like--you always loved it; did you begin to mourn for Ferdie before he was dead?" "Oh, pa, she said such terrible things to me--our own Cicely. I don't know how to take it!" moaned poor Miss Sabrina to her father when they were left alone. "Well, you are pretty black, Sabrina," suggested the judge, doubtfully. "Those tossels now--" "I got them because they were cheap. I _hope_ they look like mourning?" "You needn't be afraid; they're hearse-like!" "Are they, really?" said Miss Sabrina, with gratification. "The choice at the mainland store is so small." But presently the tears came again. "Oh, pa, everything is so sad now. Do you remember when I used to ride my little pony by your side, and you were on your big black horse? How kind you have always been to me, pa; and I have been such a disappointment to you!" "No, no, Breeny; no, little girl," said the judge. They kissed each other, the old man and his gray-haired child. Their minds went back to brighter days; they understood each other's sorrow. At two o'clock Eve had not yet gone to bed. There was a tap at her door. She spoke. "Cicely?" "Yes." She drew back the bolt, and Cicely entered, carrying a small lamp. "You haven't gone to bed? So much the better; you are to come with me." "Where?" "To all the places where we went that night." "I cannot." "There is no question of 'cannot;' I wish you to go, and you must, if I say so." Eve looked at her with forlorn eyes. But Cicely was inflexible. She opened the door; Eve followed her.