The condition of Mrs. Greyfield's mind was such that no answer was written or attempted that day nor the next. She sent a brief dispatch to Benton, asking him to come home, and come alone. I wished to go away, thinking she would prefer being left quite to herself under the circumstances, but she insisted on my remaining until something had been decided on about the meeting between her and Mr. Greyfield. Benton came home as requested, and the subject was canvassed in all its bearings. The decision arrived at was, that an invitation should be sent to Mr. Greyfield and daughter to visit Mrs. Greyfield for a fortnight. Everything beyond that was left entirely to the future. When all was arranged, I took my leave, promising and being promised frequent letters. The last time I was at Mrs. Greyfield's, I found there only herself and her daughter Nellie. "I have adopted her," she said, "with her father's consent. She is a charming girl, and I could not bear to leave her motherless. Benton is very much attached to his father. They are off on a mountaineering expedition at present, but I hope they will come home before you go away." "Are you not going to tell me," I asked, "how you finally settled matters between Mr. Greyfield and yourself." "He is a very persistent suitor," she replied, smiling, "I can hardly tell what to do with him." "You do not want to break bark over his head?" I said, laughing. "No; but I do almost wish that since he had stayed away so long he had never come back. I had got used to my own quiet, old-maid ways. I was done, or thought I was done, with passion and romance; and now to be tossed about in this way, on the billows of doubt--to love and not to love--to feel revengeful and forgiving--to think one way in the morning and another way by noon, is very tiresome. I really do _not_ know what to do with him." I smiled, because I thought the admission was as good as Mr. Greyfield need desire, for his prospects. "I think I can understand," I said, "how difficult it must be to get over all the gaps made by so many years of estrangement--of fancied death, even. Had you been looking for him for such a length of time, there would still be a great deal of awkwardness in the meeting, when you came together again." "Yes," said Mrs. Greyfield, "it is inevitable. The most artistic bit of truth in the _Odyssey_ (you see I have read Homer since you called me PENELOPE), is where the poet describes the difficulty the faithful wife had in receiving the long-absent, and now changed, Ulysses as her true husband." "But she did receive him," I interrupted, "and so will you."