CHAPTER XV
YOUR TRUE HOME
Marguerite Crawford felt that she had been truly changed to some other personality when the carriage stopped under the broad porte cochere, and the driver opened the door with a bow for his master. There had been a slight fall of snow in the night that had wrapped every post and every tree in a mantle of jewels, and now the sun came out gorgeously, sending golden rays over the dappled sky of blue and white.
Her father handed her out. Willard ran down the wide steps taking both her hands in his and kissing her fondly. A passion of regret flooded her.
“Oh,” in a broken tone. “I was rude and ungenerous to you yesterday. I am sorry—”
“We will let that go, I knew you would regret it. I tried to look at it from your point of view, and I think you couldn’t resemble mother so much in looks and not in character.”
Her father took her other arm. “Welcome home, my dear daughter,” he exclaimed. “All our years together will prove how glad we are to have you.”
The hall was like a beautiful larger room, with pictures and statuary and some elegant vases that would have dwarfed a smaller space.