Every face I saw was full of suppressed jubilee; they were almost afraid to show their joy openly, knowing that I--and, indeed, I suspect both of us--were too proud to accept of public sympathy either in our variance or our reconciliation, if reconciliation it was. The face of Alice was the most wondering, and the least joyous of all--she could not quite understand what this return was, or what it portended; she did not accept it as her uninstructed neighbors did, merely as a runaway wife coming home, asking pardon and having forgiveness; and though her eyes shone with sudden brightness when she saw my husband supporting me, and some appearance of conversation between us, she was still perplexed and far from satisfied. My husband left me when we reached my room, and I gladly loosed off my bonnet and mantle, and laid myself down upon the sofa. It was evening again, and the sunshine was coming full in at the west window; the jessamine boughs were hanging half across it with their white stars, and the rich foliage beyond, just touched with the first tints of autumn, rose into the beautiful sky above. My own familiar room, where Alice's pretty muslin draperies had been, and where, a year ago, my husband had decked a bower for his unthankful bride. I saw all its graceful appointments now in strange contrast with the small white dimity bedroom in which I awoke this morning. How pleasant, I thought, _that_ little house when first we went to it! What an agreeable relief from the etiquettes and services of this statelier dwelling-place! I had become accustomed to the ways and manners of our homely life by this time, and the charm of novelty was gone from them. I found a greater charm on this particular evening, in looking about, while I lay overpowered with the languor of weariness on my sofa, upon the costly and graceful articles round me in "my lady's chamber." The second change was quite as pleasant as the first. "So this is Cottiswoode, Alice," I said, in a half reverie, "and we are at home." "Oh, never to leave it again, Miss Hester--never to leave it till God calls," cried Alice, anxiously. "I don't ask for a word, not a word, more than you're ready to give; but, tell me, you've made up your mind to that, dear, and I'm content?" "I will never go away of my own will--no, happy or unhappy, it is right I should be here," I said. "Does that satisfy you, Alice?" "Miss Hester, I'd rather hear less of right and more of kindly wish and will," said Alice, with most unlooked-for petulance. "You oughtn't to be unhappy--God has never sent it, and it's time enough when He sends to seek grief."