Jock replied that he was seven; but at this point an exclamation from Helen cut the conversation short; for now they were rapidly approaching a house situated in the midst of large grounds on the outskirts of the town,—a shade-embowered dwelling, on the broad veranda of which flitting forms were to be seen, as the carriage paused a moment for the gate to be opened. Helen stood up and eagerly waved her handkerchief; then they drove in, swept around a large circle and drew up before an open door, from which poured a troop of eager welcomers of all ages and colors.
It seemed to Marion a babel of sound which ensued—kisses, welcomes, hand-shakings, questions,—then she was swept along by the tide into the cool, garnished house, and thence on to a bowery chamber, where she was left for a little while to herself: since Helen was, after all, the grand object of the ovation, and it was into Helen's room that the loyal crowd gathered, who had merely given to Marion that cordial welcome which no stranger ever failed to receive on a Southern threshold.
Only Helen's mother—who, having been twice married, was now Mrs. Dalton—lingered behind with the young stranger, and looked earnestly into the fair face, as if seeking a likeness.
"You are very little like your mother, my dear," she said at last; "though you have her eyes. Alice was beautiful, but it was a gentle beauty; while you—well, I think you must be altogether a Lynde."
"I know that I am very like the Lyndes," Marion answered. "I have a miniature of my father, which I can see myself that I resemble."
"He was a very handsome man," said Mrs. Dalton, "and daring—ah! it was no wonder that he was among the first to rush into the war, and among the first to be killed! My child, you do not know how my heart has yearned over you during all these years, how happy I was to hear of your being at the convent with Helen, and now how glad I am to see you under my own roof. I want you to feel that you are like a daughter of the house."
"You are very kind," replied Marion, touched by the evident sincerity of the words. "I am glad, too, to know at last some of my mother's kindred."
"I can't help wishing that you looked more like her," said Mrs. Dalton, returning wistfully to that point. "She was very lovely—though you—I suppose I need not tell you what you are. My dear"—and suddenly the elder woman stooped to kiss the younger—"I am sorry for you."
"I am sorry for you!" The words lingered on Marion's ear after her aunt's kindly presence had left the room and she stood alone, asking herself why she was so often met in this manner. Why was it that, even with her royal beauty, she had thus far encountered more of pity than of admiration? Why did all eyes that had looked on the sin and sorrow of earth regard her with compassion, and why had she heard so often in her old life that which was her first greeting in the new—"I am sorry for you"?
"Sorry!—for what?" The girl asked herself this with fiery and impatient disdain. What did they all mean? Why did this keynote of unknown misfortune or suffering meet her at every turn, like a shadow flung forward by the unborn future? Why did this refrain always ring in her ears? She was tired of it—so she said to herself with sudden passion,—and she would let the future prove whether or not their pity was misplaced.