One would have supposed that the mere difference of sex might have affected her, and made her disposed to view favourably, and to greet pleasantly at least, the only son of the man to whose folly she owed so much--a handsome young fellow, whose face made even those of old women brighten. But it was not so; and thus bitterly did Roland Lindsay feel that his home-coming, with all its sense of irritation and humiliation, was such that, but for Maude and those at Merlwood, he would have regretted that he did not perish after Kashgate, when he lay helpless in the desert, with the foul Egyptian vultures hovering over him. CHAPTER XII. MAUDE. Lunch ended, Roland was lingering rather gloomily over a glass of his father's old favourite Amontillado, which Simon Funnell had disinterred from the cobwebby bins of the cellar for his special delectation, when an exclamation made him start; a pair of soft arms were thrown around his neck, and a bright, fair face was pressed against his cheek. 'Maude!' 'Roland--Roland--you here! oh, such an unexpected joy!' exclaimed his sister, a merry and impulsive girl, who had just returned from riding, in bearing so smart, handsome, and perfect in her hat and habit, as she tossed aside her whip and gauntlets and embraced him again and again, so effusively and affectionately that he felt an emotion of welcome for the first time. 'I am here, Maude--but why did you not come to meet me?' said he. 'I knew not that you were to be here to-day,' she replied, with a sparkle in her eyes. 'Did your--did not Mrs. Lindsay tell you I was coming?' 'No,' replied Maude indignantly. 'Another act of coldness and unwelcome.' 'Oh, Roland--how I dread these people!' 'Who?' 'Mrs. Lindsay and her Mr. Sharpe! I have just had a spin over breezy Tentsmuirs, making the sheep and rabbits fly before me, as you and I and Hester Maule have often done before, Roland,' said Maude, changing abruptly from grave to gay. Full of health and spirits, with a soft rose-leaf complexion that was heightened by recent exercise and present excitement, she was a girl whose beauty was of a delicate type. Her hair was of the sunniest brown, her eyes a soft and dreamy blue, yet wont to beam and sparkle at times; her figure was slight, extremely graceful, and she was now in her twentieth year. 'By Jove, Maude, you have grown quite a little beauty!' exclaimed Roland, while, holding each other at arm's length, brother and sister surveyed each other's face; 'but in expression you are not changed a bit.' 'Nor you, Roland--yet, how scorched--how brown you are!' 'That was done in Egypt--but much of it wore off at Merlwood.' 'How long you have been of coming here, Roland!' said Maude, with a pout on her ruby lip. 'Since returning to Britain, you mean?' 'Since returning to Scotland.' 'With all my love for you, my dear little sister, I was loth to face the--the mortifications that I feared awaited me at home.' 'A changed home, Roland!'