She stood at the door. In the cross lights of lantern in front and Moorish lamp behind, she seemed to be in all the animate world the thing least changed since she had stood there to receive the boy nineteen summers before. Only a little frailer, a little whiter haired, subtly fined down by the years. With an impetuosity that made Val tremble for the fragile watcher at the door, Ethan sprang forward and up the two steps of the porch. He stopped before her with a curious reverence, and took her gently in his arms. Her head drooped on his shoulder. Val saw she had drawn the veil across her face. His arm still round her, Ethan turned with her into the hall. "What!" he said, seeing the parlor lit, "am I company this time?" "Tell Jerusha to serve supper," said Mrs. Gano, tremulously, to Val. "Jerusha! Fancy her being still alive! But no supper, thank you; there was a dining-car on my miserable train." The others went into the parlor, while Val took the lantern and the message to the kitchen, and then hurried back. Emmie was beaming beside her cousin, sitting as close to him as she could get on the old velvet sofa. Opposite sat Mrs. Gano, animated, smiling. John Gano stood with parted coat-tails in front of the fire. "And how does life abroad compare on the whole with life in America?" he was asking. "Well, outwardly it is very different, of course." "Different! I should think so," said Val, impulsively. "_Outwardly different_," repeated John Gano. "I should think the spirit as well--the point of view utterly alien from ours." "I believe _I'd_ like Europe," said the sympathetic Emmie, "but Val's been wondering a great deal how you could bear it so long, especially after your grandfather was dead, and you could do as you liked." Mrs. Gano sat very straight, not joining in the conversation at this point, but succeeding to admiration in conveying her opinions. "I dare say," explained John Gano; "there has been some not altogether unnatural fear that the Old World might infect even you, as it has done other good Americans." "How is that?" John Gano shook his lion locks ominously. Ethan looked at his grandmother. Her slow head-shake set the white veil waving. Evidently, whatever the danger might be, it was something too hideous for words. He looked at Val. She turned away her eyes. The infected one began to smile involuntarily. His youngest cousin alone of that patriotic company looked at him with no shadow of misgiving. "There's a young man belongs to this town," she said, beginning in gentle explanatory tones, but waxing indignant as she went on, "and his name's Jimmie Battle--used to be quite a nice young man. Grandma knew his father's father--" "Certainly, I knew all about the Battle family, from A to Izzard." "Let _me_ tell, grandma. Well, Jimmie Battle went to Paris for a week, and when he got back to America he called himself James Battelle. Everybody loathes and despises--I mean, doesn't like Jimmie any more."