The front door is open, and a dark-eyed woman, young and fair, is sewing by the window. At a little distance from her is a white-robed baby playing on the floor, to which her eyes wander with a tender glance.
There is a step on the piazza; a manly form darkens the door; a cheery voice chirps to the laughing baby, and the mother looks up with a smile. It is our old friends, Marion Verne, now Marion Kent, and Wayne. This beautiful country-place is their home, and a happier family it would be hard to find.
“Marion,” said Wayne, as he tossed the crowing child, “do you know what day this is?”
“No—yes—it is Wednesday, the seventeenth of September, I believe.”
“Yes; but do you remember that this is the second anniversary of Wild Nat’s death?”
Marion looked up with a graver face.
“Two years have brought their changes, Wayne. I wonder where Vic is?”
“Trapping beavers and fighting Indians I daresay. I wonder— Ah, there is company.”
Marion turned to look from the window.
A man mounted on a large gray horse had ridden up to the gate and dismounted. As he stepped from behind a clump of lilac bushes, Mrs. Kent started up with an exclamation: