-bald object that in its distant youth had probably been
a silk hat.

The young woman smiled back and held out her hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Huggins."

"How de do, Miss Katherine," he stammered.

"Have you seen father anywhere?" she asked anxiously.

"No. Your aunt just sent me word I was to meet you and fetch you home.
She couldn't leave Doctor West."

"Is father ill?" she cried.

The old cabman fumbled his ancient headgear.

"No--he ain't--he ain't exactly sick. He's just porely. I guess it's
only--only a bad headache."

He hastily picked up her suit-case and led her past the sidling
admiration of the drummers, those sovereign critics of Western
femininity, to the back of the station where stood a tottering surrey
and a dingy gray nag, far gone in years, that leaned upon its shafts
as though on crutches. Katherine clambered in, and the drooping animal
doddered along a street thickly overhung with the exuberant May-green
of maples.

She gazed with ardent eyes at the familiar frame cottages, in some of
which had lived school and high-school friends, sitting comfortably
back amid their little squares of close-cropped lawn. She liked New
York with that adoptive liking one acquires for the place one chooses
from among all others for the passing of one's life; but her affection
remained warm and steadfast with this old town of her girlhood.

"Oh, but it feels good to be back in Westville again!" she cried to
the cabman.

"I reckon it must. I guess it's all of two years sence you been home."

"Two years, yes. It's going to be a great celebration this afternoon,
isn't it?"

"Yes'm--very big"--and he hastily struck the ancient steed. "Get-ep
there, Jenny!"

Mr. Huggins's mare turned off Station Avenue, and Katharine excitedly
stared ahead beneath the wide-boughed maples for the first glimpse of
her home. At length it came into view--one of those big, square,
old-fashioned wooden houses, built with no perceptible architectural
idea beyond commodious shelter. She had thought her father might
possibly stumble out to greet her, but no one stood waiting at the
paling gate.

She sprang lightly from the carriage as it drew up beside the curb,
and leaving Mr. Huggins to follow with her bag she hurried up the
brick-paved path to the house. As she crossed the porch, a slight,
gray, Quakerish little lady, with a white kerchief folded across her
breast, pushed open the screen door. Her Katherine gathered into her
a