“Nothing, sir, and I have a wife and two children. But I am afraid I have spoiled your home-coming.” Indeed, he had. CHAPTER II. A SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY. The door of the manor house was open, and the owner stood on the step looking across green fields and sloping hills. Both the man and the house were worthy of attention. The man was a strong, straight young Englishman of twenty-three years, a little above the average height, with a face full of health and intelligence, a mouth and chin that showed strength and firmness, grey eyes full of kindliness, and a well-shaped head covered with crisp, brown hair. The house was an old-fashioned English homestead, unpretentious, but substantial, and with an air about it of comfort and plenty. It was the sort of house always associated in our minds with the pictures of rural life which emigrants keep in their hearts, and painters put on the canvas. The young man standing in the doorway was thinking not of the house, but of the view that was visible from it; and, in truth, it was a very pleasant one. The garden at his feet was ample and well kept, and already the spring flowers were making it beautiful. Around the outside there were shrubs of many kinds, and beyond them the home close looked green and sunny, while further still a little stream rippled and sang, and woods and fields made the landscape fair. John Dallington was by no means an emotional man, but his heart beat quickly as he looked across the fertile English lands that had been his father’s, and were now his own. He had never experienced the land-hunger that some people know; but if he had he could scarcely have felt a greater sense of satisfaction than that which filled him now. “To think that so fair a piece of this wonderful little England is really mine, to have and hold, and do as I please with!” he thought. “I have seen nothing so peaceful and picturesque in all my wanderings. It is indeed good to be at home.” And he felt this all the more because his absence had been a long one. More than six years had passed since on a cold, wet morning he had parted from his mother, and turned his back upon his home. It was better so he thought then, and it was his conviction still. But the memory was rather a painful one, though it came to him on a Sunday morning, when everything seemed glad, and the contrast between the present and the past was most striking.