elia came to the door as the two young people were saying good-night at
the foot of the steps. The doctor looked up at her with a smile.

"Is the patient quiet?" he asked.

"Yes, only he mutters in his sleep."

"That's not strange. He's bound to be a bit feverish after that blow;
but I don't anticipate serious trouble. Let Jeff sleep on the couch in
his room; that will be all that's necessary."

Celia stood looking down at the doctor as her sister came up the steps.
"It's strange," she said, "for I know Lanse isn't badly hurt, but all I
can think of to-night is how I wish father and mother were here."

"That's been in my head all day," said Charlotte, with her arm around
Celia's shoulder.

"I can understand," Doctor Churchill answered them both, and they knew
he could. "But just remember that though they were on the other side of
the world to stay for years, they can still come back to you. Just to
know that seems to me enough."

They understood him. Celia would have made warm-hearted answer, but at
that instant the sound of heavy carriage-wheels rapidly rounding the
corner and coming toward them made all three turn to look. The carriage
came on at a great pace, swerved toward them, and drew in to the curb,
the driver pulling in his horses at their door.

"Who can it be?" breathed Celia. "Nobody has written. It must be a
mistake."

Charlotte gasped. "It couldn't be--Celia--it _couldn't_ be----"

The driver leaped from the box and flung open the door. A tall figure
stepped out, turned toward them as if trying to make sure who they were,
then waved its arm. The familiar gesture brought two cries of rapture as
Charlotte rushed and Celia hurried down the steps.

The doctor stood still and watched, his pulse quickening in sympathy. He
saw the tall figure grasp in turn both the slender ones, heard two eager
cries of "_Mother!"_ and beheld the second occupant of the carriage
fairly dragged out, to be smothered in two pairs of impetuous young
arms. Then he went quietly away over the lawn to his own house, feeling
that he had as yet no right to be one of the group about the
home-comers.

In his room, an hour later, he stood before the portrait of a woman, no
longer young, but beautiful with the beauty which never grows old. He
stood looking up at it, then spoke gently to it.

"She's just your sort, dear," he said, his keen eyes soft and bright.
"It's only friendship now, for she's not much more than a child, and I