Dick wrote page upon page about the new residence at Pine Hill, the grounds around it, the model houses in the villages, and the receipts from the trustees; but Eugene read them without interest. The agent had completed the mansion, furnished it, employed a housekeeper, stocked the conservatory, partially filled up the book shelves in the library; indeed, he had put the place in complete readiness for occupancy. His description was glowing and eloquent, and Eugene would not have believed, a year ago, that he could look so coldly upon the realization of his dreams of splendor and comfort. If Mary could have been at his side to enter the new house with him, it would have been a fairy palace. The steamer sped on her way over the ocean, and safely landed her passengers in Boston. Eugene telegraphed his arrival to Dick Birch, and took the first train for home. When the family reached the station at Poppleton Mills, Dick was there. “How are you, old fellow?” exclaimed the enthusiastic agent, as he seized the hand of Eugene. “How pale you are!” “I am very well, Dick. How are you?” “Never better. Ah, Miss Hungerford, I welcome you home,” he added, grasping the hand of Julia. For some reason or other both of them blushed a little. Mrs. Hungerford was greeted in her turn, which was after Julia. “What’s the news in Poppleton, Dick?” asked Eugene. “Nothing special; there was a man drowned to-day, off The Great Bell.” “Who was he?” asked the returned wanderer, fearing that this might be the preface to a story informing him that some friend had been lost. “His name was Goodwin; he was a stranger--came down here gunning.” “What a shock you gave me!” added Eugene, greatly relieved. “This way, Hungerford,” continued Dick, leading the way to an elegant carriage which stood by the platform, with the driver holding the open door. “Whose is this, Dick?” asked Eugene. “Yours, of course. I purchased it for the use of the ladies.” Avoiding as much as possible the greetings of friends and neighbors, who had heard of his coming, and had collected at the station to welcome him, Eugene got into the carriage with his mother and sister. “Home,” said Dick to the driver, as he joined the party inside. “Now, Dick, what news is there?” demanded Eugene. “You know what I mean.” “I hoped you would not say anything about that at present, for the news is not pleasant.” “My God!” groaned Eugene. “No, no, Hungerford; it is not as bad as it might be. She is not dead.” “That would be good news,--I had almost said. Where is she?” “At home.” “At her father’s?” “Yes.” “Have you seen her?” “No; she is too ill; but she is improving.” “What does her father say? Is he reconciled?” “No; but he can’t help himself; he has been confined to his bed, for a couple of months, with rheumatism.” “Where is Ross?” “At home. Your yacht lies in the river.” “Never mind the yacht.” “I have made Ross stay at home, and attend to the affairs of the family.”