Her cheeks burned with a sense of indignation and annoyance at the strangeness of her reception. She had not wished for the rejoicings her father had once planned for her, but she had entered her own house precisely as some hireling might have done, with no one to receive or greet her, no one to care if she had come. She turned away to ascend the stairs, but paused with her foot on the lowest step as a door at the further end of the hall opened, and the housekeeper, rosy and rotund, with cap ribbons flying, came rushing forward with outstretched arms. “Oh, my dear Miss Neva,” cried the good woman, who had known and loved the baronet’s daughter from her birth. “Welcome home, my sweet lamb! How you have grown--so tall, so beautiful, so bright and sweet!” “You dear old Hopper!” exclaimed Neva, springing forward and embracing the good woman with girlish fervor. “I began to think I must have entered a strange house. I am so glad to see you!” Mrs. Artress looked upon this little scene with an air of disgust, and with a little sniff hastened up the stairs to the apartments of Lady Wynde. “Your rooms are ready, Miss Neva,” said Mrs. Hopper--“your old rooms. I made sure you wanted them again, because poor Sir Harold furnished them new for you only four years ago. I will go with you up stairs.” Neva led the way, tripping lightly up the broad steps, and flitting along the wide upper hall. Her rooms comprised a suit opposite those of Lady Wynde. Neva opened the door of her sitting-room and went in. The portly old butler was arranging wreaths of flowers about the pictures and statuettes, but turned as the young girl came in, and welcomed her with an admixture of warmth and respectfulness that were pleasant to witness. Then he took his basket of cuttings and withdrew, the tears of joy flooding his honest eyes. The girl’s sitting-room had been transformed by the loving forethought of the butler into a very bower of beauty. The carpet was of a pale azure hue starred with arbutus blossoms, and the furniture was upholstered in blue silk of the same delicate tint. The pictures on the walls were all choice and framed in gilt, and with their wreaths of odorous blossoms, gave a fairy brightness to the room. The silvermounted grate was crowded thickly with choice flowers from the conservatory, whose colors of white and blue were here and there relieved with scarlet blossoms like living coals. The wide French windows, opening upon a balcony, were open. “Ah, this is home!” said Neva, sinking down upon a silken couch, and looking out of one of the windows upon the lawn. “I am glad to be back again, Hopper, but it’s a sad home coming. Poor Papa!” “Poor Sir Harold!” echoed the housekeeper, wiping her eyes. “If he could only have lived to see you grown up, Miss Neva. It was dreadful that he should have been taken as he was. I can’t somehow get over the shock of his death.” “I shall never get over it!” murmured Neva softly.