ppiness and peace which seemed but the beginning of
a blessed time. My mother had grown perhaps a little older in the last
two years, but surely she had grown more beautiful. It was enough at
first merely to look into her face: then when I followed her up to her
room we told each other many, many things, but I invite none to follow
me over that threshold.

"I took good care of your boy, Mary," said Mr. Floyd, coming up to us
when we descended; and when I met my mother's look I felt again all the
proud humility that a son can feel, beloved as I was beloved.

"He was not such a bad boy," pursued Mr. Floyd, ringing the bell and
ordering tea, "and his faults, such as they were, belonged to his
age.--Don't open your eyes, Helen, as if you expected to hear just what
he did. I shall not betray him. All the world knows that when one is
abroad one may commit enormities which there may be put inside your
sleeve, while here they are as big as a meeting-house."

"I don't believe Floyd did anything wicked," remarked Helen with some
spirit.

"We are at home now, Floyd," pursued he with an air of resignation, "and
our little diversions are over. The eyes of two women are upon us. No
more cakes and ale--nothing but rectitude, cold water, naps in the
evening. I forgot, though, about our charming guest. While Miss Lenox is
here ginger will be hot i' the mouth, and life will have a slight flavor
of wickedness still."

"But where is Miss Lenox?" I asked.

"Miss Lenox is far too brilliant a young lady to stay constantly in a
dull country-house," said Mr. Floyd. "The cottage people over at the
Point _raffolent_, as our friends abroad say, upon the charming Miss
Georgina. We have, after all, very little of her society. She goes on
yachting-parties, to dinners, luncheons, picnics--everywhere, in fact,
where the delicate lavender ribbons of slight mourning may be allowed.
She has attended a dejeuner to-day, and we are every moment expecting
that our gates of pearl will unclose and admit a celestial visitant."

"Now, papa," said Helen, "you shall not make fun of Georgy. Nobody does
her justice."

"Don't they?" returned Mr. Floyd dryly. "_Fiat justitia_, then! _Ruat
caelum!_ One would follow the other in this case, I fear.--She generally,
Floyd, brings home one or two in her train. You remember Antonio Thorpe?
That young man is so often here that I am beginning to regard him as one
of the regular drawbacks to existence, like draughts, in