Mary thanked her, and crossing the room, rapped upon the door of an inner office. A sweet, cheery voice said, “Come in,” and they entered a large sunny room, by the western window of which sat a gray-haired lady, who rose with girlish eagerness to greet them. “I have been waiting for you, my dears,” she said, and Virginia thought she had never heard such a sweet voice. “And I have been waiting years for you, Virginia,” she continued. “Come to the window. I want to look at my dear Mary Webster’s little girl.” She took them by either hand, and drew them to the window. Then she took off Virginia’s hat, and with tears in her sweet, almost sad blue eyes studied the girl’s face. “My dear,” she said at last, “you don’t look like your mother, and yet you do. Your eyes are gray, while hers were blue, but the light in them is just the same, and your mouth is hers. But it is only fair that you should look also like that fine father of yours whom your mother brought to see me eighteen years ago. It was twenty years ago that Mary Webster left St. Helen’s the sadder for her leaving; and now the same St. Helen’s is gladder for her coming again in her little daughter. Oh, my dear, my dear, how glad I am to have you here!” With that her blue eyes quite brimmed over with tears, and she held Virginia close a moment and kissed her. A lump rose in Virginia’s throat and she could not speak. The dear memory of her mother, and more than all else, the genuine praise and appreciation of her father, the first she had heard since she came East, with the exception of Aunt Nan’s compliment, quite overcame her. Tears filled her eyes, and her chin quivered, when she tried to thank Miss King. But the dear lady understood, and, still holding her hand, turned to talk with Mary until Virginia should be herself again. “And, now,” she said gayly, a few moments later, “you’re both to have tea with me, for I’ve told Miss Weston I’m not to be interrupted on any condition. We don’t have girls from Wyoming every day, do we, Mary? You like my room, Virginia?” For Virginia’s eyes were wandering about the room, charmed with everything. “I just love it, Miss King,” she said, in her natural, unaffected way. “It makes me think of a sunny autumn afternoon at home. The walls are just the color of our brown foot-hills, and the yellow curtains against them are like the sunlight on the hills. And I love the marigolds on the table, I always have them in mother’s garden at home. She loved them so.” “I’m so glad it seems like that to you,” Miss King told her, “because it always makes me think of October, my favorite month.” And she looked about contentedly at the soft brown walls, the pale yellow silk curtains, the darker furniture, and the bowl of yellow and brown marigolds which saw their reflection in the polished table. The pictures were largely soft landscapes in sepia, Corot’s and Millet’s; but here and there was hung a water color in a sunny, golden frame.