“Couldn’t of done much better myself,” said the delighted Bill, hovering about the window of the carriage in which Jimmie had now taken his seat. Thoroughly tired of the scene, Jimmie intimated to Jake his wish to go home, and the iron greys sprang quickly forward, but not until Jimmie had caught Bill’s parting words, “Call round and see a feller, won’t you? I’ll show you the old gal. You know you asked me about her in the Virginny woods.” * * * * * It seemed like a new world to Jimmie when, after they had left the noisy crowd, they turned into the pleasant, quiet street which wound up the hill to where the handsome Mather mansion stood, every blind thrown back and wreaths of smoke curling gracefully from every chimney, for Rose, wishing to do something in honor of her brother’s return, had ordered the whole house to be opened as if for a holiday, while every flower which could possibly be spared from her conservatory, had been broken from its stem, and fashioned into bouquets by Annie’s tasteful hands. “Wouldn’t it be splendid,” Rose said, as she lay watching Annie at her task, “wouldn’t it be splendid to hang the Stars and Stripes in festoons across the hall, where Jimmie will pass under them?” Annie did _not_ think it would. In her opinion Jimmie was not deserving of such honor, and she said so, as delicately as possible, adding that “were it Tom it would be a very different thing.” Rose knew that Annie was right, and so the Stars and Stripes were not brought out to welcome the young man now rapidly approaching. Annie was the first to catch the sound of the carriage wheels, and when Rose turned to ask if she really supposed Jimmie was there, she found herself alone. “She’s gone to meet him, of course,” she said, “but I most wish she had staid here, for I wanted to introduce her myself. I hope she won’t dislike him.” Meantime in the parlor below, Mrs. Carleton sat waiting for her boy,—not as Spartan mothers were wont to wait for their sons returning from the war, but with a yearning tenderness for the loved prodigal, blended with loyal indignation for his sin. He was not coming to her as a hero who had done what he could for his country, but with a traitor’s stain upon his fair name, which she would gladly have wiped out. She heard the carriage as it stopped, and heard the step on the piazza, not rapid and bounding as it used to be, but slow and heavy, as if uncertain which way to turn. “I must go out to meet him,” she said, but all her strength forsook her, and sinking upon the sofa, she could only call out faintly, “Jimmie, my boy.”