The miserable three years are gone, or nearly so, and all around the Beechwood mansion the July sun shines brightly, while the summer shadows chase each other in frolicsome glee over the velvety sward, and in the maple trees the birds sing merrily, as if they know that the hand which has fed them so often with crumbs will feed them again on the morrow. In the garden, the flowers which the child Milly loved so well are blossoming in rich profusion, but their gay beds present many a broken stalk to-day, for the Judge has gathered bouquet after bouquet with which to adorn the parlors, the library, the chambers, and even the airy halls, for Mildred is very fond of flowers, and when the sun hangs just above the woods and the engine-whistle is heard among the Mayfield hills lying to the westward, Mildred is coming home, and stored away in some one of her four trunks is a bit of paper saying that its owner has been graduated with due form, and is a finished-up young lady. During the last year the Judge had not seen her, for business had called him to Virginia, and, for a part of the time, Beechwood had been closed and Mildred had spent her long vacation with Lilian, who was now to accompany her home. With this arrangement the Judge hardly knew whether to be pleased or not. He did not fancy Lilian. He would a little rather have Mildred all to himself a while; but when she wrote to him, saying: “May Lilian come home with me? It would please me much to have her,”—he answered “Yes,” at once; for now, as of old, he yielded his wishes to those of Mildred, and he waited impatiently for the appointed day, which, when it came, he fancied would never end. Five o’clock, said the fanciful time-piece upon the marble mantle, and, when the silver bell rang out the next half-hour, the carriage came slowly to the gate, and with a thrill of joy the Judge saw the girlish head protruding from the window, and the fat, white hand wafting kisses towards him. He had no desire now to kick her into the street,—no wish to send her from Beechwood,—no inclination to swear at Widow Simms for saying she was like himself. He was far too happy to have her home again, and, kissing her cheeks as she bounded to his side, he called her “little Spitfire,” just as he used to do, and then led her into the parlor, where hung the picture of another Mildred, who now might well be likened to herself, save that the dress was older-fashioned and the hair a darker brown. “Oh, isn’t it pleasant here?” she cried, dancing about the room. “Such heaps of flowers, and, as I live, a new piano! It’s mine, too!” and she fairly screamed with joy as she saw her own name, “MILDRED HOWELL,” engraved upon it. “It was sent home yesterday,” returned the Judge, enjoying her delight and asking for some music.