“Oh, Cynthia, don’t be rude to Mrs. Carney!” pleaded distressed Nathalie, as she sprang to the side of her queer little friend. “How are you, Mrs. Carney?” she asked gently, smiling at the face under the bonnet. “We are very glad to see you. You don’t mind Mrs. Carney joining us, do you?” continued the girl, looking at Mr. Banker. “If you do,” she added quickly, “and will excuse me, I will go down-stairs with her, so we can have a little chat.” “No, Miss Nathalie, we do not mind Mrs. Carney joining us; in fact,” again that queer little note in Mr. Banker’s voice, “I was just about to ask you to go and bring her here.” He advanced as he spoke and cordially shook the hand of the old lady, who pressed his warmly, but said nothing. “Ah, here is your favorite seat,” continued the gentleman; “perhaps you would like to sit down in it. But I forgot, ladies; perhaps you have not met Mrs. John Renwick,” he had turned towards the occupants of the room smilingly, “the lady who has allowed you the privilege of summering in her house for the last two months, your neighbor of the little red house. As you see, Mrs. Renwick is alive, and I will ask her to take charge of her own letter of instruction, and see that the reward is given to the right one—and—” The gentleman paused, for Mrs. Page, with a glad light in her eyes, was already at the lady’s side, crying, “Oh, sister Mary, it was kind of you to take this way of giving us such a lovely summer. And I am so glad that you are alive and well.” She kissed Mrs. Renwick with warm cordiality. “Do you know,” she continued smilingly, “I was rather suspicious that you were up to one of your—” “Eccentricities,” interrupted the old lady pleasantly, with an odd twinkle in her eyes. “Well, I was anxious to know these young ladies. Yes, I guess I know them now, one of them at least.” She glanced wrathfully at Cynthia, who stood with down-cast eyes, her face as crimson as a poppy, and her heart in a strange tumult of amazement, anger, and regret. But Nathalie, in her quick, impulsive way, had thrown her arms around Mrs. Renwick’s neck and was giving her a good hug, as she cried, “Oh! my dear little lady of the red house, I am so glad you are Aunt Mary, for now you will _have to be my friend_, and answer my letters whether you want to or not.” The old lady’s gray eyes softened, as she bent forward and kissed the girl softly on each cheek as she answered gently, “Nathalie, you are just like your father,—he was my favorite brother,—but it is for yourself, child,” she added gravely, “that I have learned to love you. But who has won the prize?” she inquired abruptly, smiling down at the children who were staring at her uncomprehendingly, recognizing her as the inmate of the red house, who seemed to have suddenly assumed a new character.