Alec himself was a joy to look upon--eyeballs and teeth gleaming, his face one wide, encircling smile. Marse Harry was the apple of his eye, and had been ever since the day of his birth. He had carried him on his back when a boy; had taught him to fish and hunt and to ride to hounds; had nursed him when he fell ill at the University in his college days, and would gladly have laid down his life for him had any such necessity arisen. To-night, in honor of the occasion, he was rigged out in a new bottle-green coat with shiny brass buttons, white waistcoat, white gloves three sizes too big for him, and a huge white cravat flaring out almost to the tips of his ears. Nothing was too good for Alec--so his mistress thought--and for the best of reasons. Not only was he the ideal servant of the old school, but he was the pivot on which the whole establishment moved. If a particular brand or vintage was needed, or a key was missing, or did a hair trunk, or a pair of spurs, or last week's Miscellany, go astray--or even were his mistress's spectacles mislaid--Alec could put his hand upon each and every item in so short a space of time that the loser was convinced the old man had hidden them on purpose, to enjoy their refinding. Moorlands without old Alec would hive been a wheel without a hub. As a distinct feature of all these preparations--and this was the best part of the programme--Harry was to meet Kate at the outer gate supported by half a dozen of his young friends and hers--Dr. Teackle, Mark Gilbert, Langdon Willits, and one or two others--while Mrs. Rutter, Mrs. Cheston, Mrs. Richard Horn, and a bevy of younger women and girls were to welcome her with open arms the moment her dainty feet cleared the coach's step. This was the way princesses of the blood had been welcomed from time immemorial to palaces and castles high, and this was the way their beloved Kate was to make entry into the home of her lord. Soon the flash of the coach lamps was seen outside the far gate. Then there came the wind of a horn--a rollicking, rolling, gladsome sound, and in the wink of an eyelid every one was out on the portico straining their eyes, listening eagerly. A joyous shout now went up from the negroes lining the fences; from the groups about the steps and along the driveway. “Here she comes!” The leaders with a swing pranced into view as they cleared the gate posts. There came a moment's halt at the end of the driveway; a postilion vaulted down, threw wide the coach door and a young man sprang in. It was Harry!... Snap!! Crack!! Toot--toot!!--and they were off again, heading straight for the waiting group. Another prolonged, winding note--louder--nearer--one of triumph this time!--a galloping, circling dash toward the porch crowded with guests--the reining in of panting leaders--the sudden gathering up of the wheel horses, back on their haunches--the coach door flung wide and out stepped Kate--Harry's hand in hers, her old mammy behind, her father last of all.