The next moment their doubts were set at rest, for Aneta Lysle entered the hall. "I came to-day after all," she said. "Auntie thought it would be more convenient. You got my telegram, didn't you?" These words were uttered while her two cousins, in rapture and delight, were kissing her. "No, no," said Merry, "we got no telegram; but, oh, Aneta! we are glad to see you." "Here's the telegram on the hall-table," said Aneta, and she took up a yellow envelope. This was addressed to "Cardew, Meredith Manor." "Yes, I know this must be from me," said Aneta. "But why didn't you open it?" "Well, the fact is," said Cicely, "father and mother were in London, and the rest of us were out on a picnic. But it doesn't matter a bit; you've come, and the sooner the better. Oh, it is nice to see you again! But how tall you are, Neta, and how grown up you look!" "I am seventeen, remember," said Aneta. "I don't feel grown-up, but auntie says I look it." "Oh, come into the light--do," said Merry, "and let's see you! We've heard so very much of you lately, and we want to look at your darling face again." "And I want to look at you both," said Aneta in her affectionate manner. The servants had conveyed Miss Lysle's luggage into the house, and now the three girls, with their arms twined round each other, entered the same big drawing-room where Mr. Cardew had given his wonderful news of the night before. There was a blaze of electric light, and this, judiciously softened with rose-colored silk, was most becoming to all those who came under its influence. But the strongest glare of light could not disfigure any one so absolutely beautiful as Aneta Lysle. Her delicate complexion, the wonderful purity and regularity of her features, her sweet, tender young mouth, her charming blue eyes, and her great luxuriance of golden hair made people who looked at her once long to study that charming face again and yet again. There was no vanity about this young girl; her manner, her expression, were simplicity itself. There was a certain nobility about her fine forehead, and the shape of her head was classical, and showed undoubted talent. Her clear, musical voice was in itself a charm. Her young figure was the very personification of grace. Beside her, Cicely and Merry felt awkward and commonplace; not that they were so, but very few people could attain to Aneta Lysle's incomparable beauty. "Well, girls," she said, "you do look sweet, both of you!" "Oh Neta, what a darling you are!" said Merry, who worshipped beauty, and had never come across any one so lovely as her cousin. "It's two years since we met," she continued, "and you have altered, and not altered. You're more grown-up and more--more stately, but your face is the same. Whenever we want to think of the angels we think of you too, Neta."