‘I am prepared to love you very dearly, for my brother’s sake and for your own,’ said Janet with a calm protecting air, kissing the poor little pale face. ‘I thought you’d like me to be here to meet you and Lucille, Lucius; so I borrowed a neighbour’s wagonette and a neighbour’s coachman.’ The piggy man grinned at the allusion. It was not often society dignified him with the name of coachman; and he knew that his master returned him in the tax-paper as an out-of-door labourer. Little Flossie was next kissed and admired, and introduced to her future aunt. ‘May I call you aunt Lucille, at once?’ she asked. ‘Of course you may, darling.’ Lucille’s portmanteau was deposited by the side of the piggy man, and they all mounted the wagonette, and drove off through lanes still gay with wild flowers and rich with balmy odours even in the very death of summer. Lucille was delighted with everything. ‘You can’t imagine what a quiet corner of the earth you are coming to,’ said Janet. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find it very dull.’ ‘Not duller than Cedar House,’ interjected Lucius. ‘And that you’ll soon grow tired of the place and of me.’ ‘Dull with you! tired of you!’ exclaimed Lucille, putting her little hand into Janet’s, ‘when I have been longing to know you.’ Half-an-hour’s drive in the jolting old wagonette brought them to Foxley, the cluster of thatched cottages in the green hollow where Geoffrey had discovered his lost love. Dahlias now bloomed in gaudy variety to extinguish the few pale roses that lingered behind their mates of the garden, like dissipated young beauties who stay latest at a ball. There were even here and there early blooming china-asters, and the Virginian creeper glowed redly on some cottage walls. Yet, despite these evidences of advancing autumn, the spot was hardly less fair than when Geoffrey had first seen it. There was that air of repose about the scene, that soothing influence of placid dispassionate nature, which is almost sweeter than actual beauty. No wide glory of landscape made the traveller exclaim, no vast and various amphitheatre of wood and hill startled him into wondering admiration; but the settled peacefulness of the scene crept into his heart, and comforted his griefs. To the eyes of Lucille, fresh from the grimy barrenness of the Cedar House garden, the spot seemed simply exquisite. What a perfume of clove carnations in the garden! what a sweet scent of lavender in the little white-curtained bedroom! And then how genial the welcome of the old nurse, with her benevolent-looking mob-cap and starched white apron; and what an interesting personage she appeared to Lucille! ‘And you really remember Mr. Davoren when he was quite a little boy?’ said Lucille, as the dame waited on her while she took off her bonnet.