Yes, fast as the good horse can bring them they come. A moment, later, and the dog-cart in full swing rounds the corner, while in it, coated to the chin, and in full possession of the reins, sits my brother, with Marmaduke--quite a secondary person--smiling beside him. I utter an exclamation, and, flinging my book from me--blind to the smiles my guests cannot restrain--I rush headlong from the room, and in another instant have Billy folded in my arms. Surely a year has gone by since last I saw him. "Oh, Billy, Billy!" I cry, clinging to him, the tears in my eyes, while glad smiles fight for mastery upon my lips. "Is it really you? It seems years and years since last we were together. Oh, how tall you have grown, and how good-looking!" "Oh, I'm all right," returns Billy, graciously giving back my kisses, warmly, it is true, but with none of the lingering tenderness that characterizes mine. "I don't think a fellow alters much in a month. Though really, now that I look at you, _you_ appear very tall, too, and thin, I think. We had such a jolly drive over; never wanted the whip the whole way, except for the flies." "Yes. And are you glad to see me, Billy? Were you lonely without me? I was so lonely without you! But come upstairs to your room, and I will tell you every thing." As I am drawing him eagerly away I catch sight of Marmaduke's face, who has been silently regarding us all this time, himself unnoticed. Something in his expression touches me with remorse. I run up to him and lay my hand upon his arm. "Thank you for bringing him," I say, earnestly, "and for letting him have the reins. I noticed that. You have made me very happy to-day." "Have I? It was easily done. I am glad to know I have made you happy for even one short day." He smiles, but draws his arm gently from my grasp as he speaks, and I know by the line across his forehead some painful thought has jarred upon him. I am feeling self-reproachful and sorry, when Billy's voice recalls me to the joy of the present hour. "Are you coming?" says that autocrat, impatiently, from the first step of the stairs, with about six bulging brown-paper parcels in his arms, that evidently no human power could have induced to enter the portmanteau that stands beside him. "Come," he says, again; and, forgetful of everything but the fact of his presence near me, I race him up the stairs and into the bedroom my own hands have made bright for him, while the elegant Thomas and the portmanteau follow more slowly in our rear. "What a capital room!" says my Billy, "and lots of space. I like that. I hate being cramped, as I always am at home." "I am glad you like it," I reply, bubbling over with satisfaction. "I settled it myself, and had the carpet taken off, because I knew you would prefer the room without it. But I desired them to put that narrow piece all round the bed, lest your feet should be cold. You won't object to that?" "Oh, no; it may remain, if you have any fancy for it."