"I could see a big grayish man madly waving his hat down there--and two young folks hopping up and down and flourishing handkerchiefs, among many similarly excited. "Oh, how _good_ of him!" she cried. "I never dreamed they'd be here!" "Nellie," said I sternly. "You never told me you were married!" "Why should I?" she asked innocently. "You never asked me." I had not. I had seen that she signed her name "Ellen Robertson," and I knew she was president of a college--how could I imagine her married. Married she evidently was, and even her long-lost brother was forgotten for a moment as the big man engulfed her in his gray overcoat, and the tall son and daughter added their arms to the group. But it was only a moment, and the big brotherly grasp of my new relation's hand, the cordial nephewly grip, and affectionate nicely kiss gave me a new and unexpected sense of the joys of homecoming. These were people, real people, as warm and kind and cheery as people ever were; and they greeted me with evident good will. It was "Uncle John" in no time, and Hallie in especial seized upon me as her own. "I know mother's got you all broken in by this time," she said. "And that you are prepared for all manner of amazing disclosures. But Mother never told us how handsome you are, Uncle John!" "In vain is the net spread in sight of any bird," murmured young Jerrold mischievously. "Don't listen to him, Uncle! I am perfectly sincere," she protested, leaning over to hug her mother again, and turning back to me with a confiding smile. "Why should I doubt such evident good judgment?" said I. And she slipped her hand in mine and squeezed it. Nellie sat there, looking as proud and happy and matronly and motherly as anybody could, and a great weight rolled off my heart. Some things were left of my old world anyway. We talked gaily and excitedly on our way of immediate plans, rolling smoothly along broad, open streets. A temporary conclusion was to stop at Hallie's apartment for the time being; and I was conscious of a distinct sense of loss to think of my new-found niece being already married. "How still it is!" I presently observed. "Is that because it is afternoon, too?" "Oh, no," they assured me. "We aren't as noisy as we used to be." "These children don't know anything about what we used to have to put up with," said Owen. "They never were in New York while it was screaming. You see, there are no horses; all surface vehicles are rubber-tired; the minor delivery is pneumatic, and the freight all goes underneath--on those silent monorails." The great city spread about us, clean as a floor, quiet as a country town by comparison with what I remembered; yet full of the stir and murmur of moving crowds. Everyone we passed or met looked happy and prosperous, and even my inexperienced eye caught a difference in costuming. "There's no masquerade on, is there?" I asked. "Oh, no--we all wear what we please, that's all. Don't you like it?" Hallie asked.