er that had haunted her mother's
imagination during the lonely year of separation. At the clasp of the
young arms about her face took light as from an inner source, and
breath came back to her in a sudden gasp. She tried to speak, but the
only word that came was "Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!"

The girl laughed, a half-sob breaking her voice as she answered
whimsically, "Well, who did you expect to see?"

Mrs. Mortimer performed her usual function of relieving emotional
tension by putting a strong hand on Lydia's shoulder and spinning her
about. "Come! I want to see if it _is_ you--and how you look."

For a moment the ardent young creature stood still in a glowing quiet.
She drank in the dazzled gaze of admiration of the two women with an
innocent delight. The tears were still in Mrs. Emery's eyes, but she did
not raise a hand to dry them, smitten motionless by the extremity of her
proud satisfaction. Never again did Lydia look to her as she did at that
moment, like something from another sphere, like some bright,
unimaginably happy being, freed from the bonds that had always weighed
so heavily on all the world about her mother.

Before she could draw breath, Lydia moved and was changed. Her mother
saw suddenly, with that emotion which only mothers know, reminiscences
of little-girlhood, of babyhood, even of long-dead cousins and aunts, in
the lovely face blooming under the wide hat. She felt the sweet
momentary confusion of individuality, the satisfied sense of complete
ownership which accompanies a strong belief in family ties. Lydia was
not only altogether entrancing, but she was of the same stuff with those
who loved her so dearly. It gave a deeper note to her mother's passion
of affectionate pride.

The girl turned with a pretty, defiant tilt of her head. "Well, and how
_do_ I look?" she asked; and before she could be answered she flew at
Mrs. Mortimer with a gentle roughness, clasping her arms around her
waist until the matron gasped. "_You_ look too good to be true--both of
you--if you are such lazybones that you wouldn't go to the station to
meet the prodigal daughter!"

"Well, if you will come on an earlier train than you telegraphed--"
began Mrs. Mortimer, "Everybody's getting ready to meet you with a brass
band. What did you do with Father?"

The girl moved away, putting her hands up to her hat uncertainly as
though about to take out the hat-pins. There was between the three a
moment of that constraint which a