and led the way toward the living-room door. With her
hand on the knob he stopped her.

"Sally--"

"Yes--"

"I can't help liking the look of the lane--beyond the corner!"

Laughing and blushing more brilliantly than before--which was rather
superfluous--Sally threw open the door, regardless of the fact that
Joanna, who possessed a pair of very good eyes, was awaiting her in the
room beyond. But there is such a thing as dazzling people's eyesight so
that they cannot judge perfectly of what they see, and this effect
Joanna's mistress immediately proceeded to produce. For the following
hour, between raptures over being at home, tales of her Southern
experiences--told so vividly that her listeners seemed to see them for
themselves--eager questionings of the home stayers, there was small
chance for anybody to put a finger upon exactly what Miss Sally Lane's
inmost thoughts might be.

Then, quite unexpectedly, a quarter hour earlier than it had been
supposed possible, the tramp of feet was heard upon the porch. Sally
flew toward the hall--then flew back again, leaving the door closed,
and standing still and breathless upon the hearth-rug, in the full
light of the fire. Voices were heard in the hall, and the rattle of
umbrellas in the rack.

"Plaguey poor play," Max was complaining. "Rather stay by the fire any
night than poke to town to bore myself like that. I don't think--"

He flung open the door. Behind him Alec's voice was saying: "I'm as wet
as a rat. You fellows had the big umbrella. The little one isn't big
enough to--"

"Well, I'll be--" Max's exclamation cut his brother short. He stood
still, staring. There was a flutter of lilac skirts, a low cry of joy,
and Jarvis was looking on enviously at an illustration of the privileges
that exist for brothers, who--stupid fellows--do not half appreciate
them. A moment later Alec and Bob had come in for their share of sisterly
greeting, and the three were standing round the returned traveller in a
highly satisfied semi-circle, putting questions, making comments, and
generally behaving as they might have been counted on to do.

"I hope you don't expect us to believe those piteous tales about your
losing flesh and colour with homesickness," declared Max, his hand on his
sister's shoulder, as he turned her full toward the firelight. "Jove, I
never saw you look more like one of those pink peonies you think so much
of, in your garden."

"I didn't write piteous tales!