“Miss Weston, whom we met at the sea-shore.”
Dawn held up both hands with delight.
“Why did you not mention it in your last letter?”
“Because she arrived since I wrote.”
“I hope she is to stay awhile with us,” said Dawn.
“We shall need all the balancing power we can bring to offset our enthusiasm. Do you not think so, Florence?” asked Mr. Wyman.
“I do, indeed. I expect Dawn's earnestness will kindle such desires among these home-loving people, that by next spring, all L—will embark for Europe.”
“Some fuel will not ignite,” said Dawn, casting a mischievous glance at Florence.
“I think foreign travel has injured my pupil's manners,” remarked Mrs. Temple, assuming an air of dignity.
“Yes, you must take her in charge immediately,” answered her father. “But here we are at our own gate. Stop, Martin,” and with a bound he sprang from the carriage. He could sit no longer. The familiar trees which his own hand had planted, spread their branches as though to welcome his return. Brilliant flowers flashed smiles of greeting. The turf seemed softer, and more like velvet than he had ever seen it; the marble statues on the lawn more elegant than all the beautiful things he had looked upon while away. Some hand had trailed the vines over the pillars of the house; the birds sang, and the air seemed full of glad welcomings. The good, honest face of Aunt Susan met them at the hall door, and a warm, hearty shake of the hand was the greeting of each.