“I never saw or heard of him till Mr. Baldwin came, and said I was to leave school for home, and he was to be my escort. It’s very strange that he should want me home now. Robert told me _she_ was gone again. Did she get very bad?’” The voice which asked this question was sad and low, like the voices of those who talk of their dead; and the voice which answered was low, too, in its tones. “Yes, she took to rocking and singing night as well as day, and that, you know, makes your father nervous sooner than anything else.” “Did she want to go?” “No; she begged to stay at first, but went quietly enough at the last.” “Did she ever mention _me_, auntie? Do you think she missed me and wanted me?” “She spoke of you once. She said, ‘If Allie was here, she wouldn’t let me go.’” “O, poor, poor darling! O, auntie, it’s terrible, isn’t it?” Alice was sobbing now, and amid her sobs she asked: “Was father gentle with her, and kind?” “Yes, gentler, more patient than I have known him for years. It almost seemed as if something must have happened to him while he was gone, for he was very quiet and thoughtful when he came home, and did not order nearly as many brandy slings, though he smoked all the time.” “Not in her room!” and the girl looked quickly up. “No, not in her room,—he spared her that; and when she first began to rock and sing, he tried his best to quiet her, but he couldn’t. She was worse than usual.” “Oh, how dreadful our life is?” Alice said again, while a shiver as if she were cold ran over her. “I used to envy the girls at school who were looking forward with such delight to their vacations, when I had nothing but this for my portion. It is better than I deserve, I know, and it is wrong for me to murmur; but, auntie, nobody can ever envy me my home!” Her white fingers were pressed to her eyes, and the tears were streaming through them, as she sat there weeping so bitterly, the fair young girl whom Magdalen Lennox had envied for her beauty, her muslin dress, her mother, her home! Alas! Magdalen, playing, and working, and eating, and living in the great kitchen at Millbank, had known more of genuine home happiness in a month than poor Alice Grey had known in her whole life. And yet Alice’s home presented to the eye a most beautiful and desirable aspect. There were soft velvet carpets on all the floors, mirrors and curtains of costly lace in all the rooms, with pictures, and books, and shells, and rare ornaments from foreign lands; handsome grounds, with winding walks and terraced banks and patches of flowers, and fountains, and trees, and rustic seats, and vine-wreathed arbors, and shady nooks, suggestive of quiet, delicious repose; horses and carriages, and plenty of servants at command. This was Alice’s home, and it stood upon the mountain side, overlooking the valley of the Hudson, which could be seen at intervals winding its way to the sea.