CHAPTER III
ONE warm, fair afternoon in May, Kenneth Galt, at the earnest solicitation of General Sylvester, came home. Under big captions the Stafford papers had proudly given the particulars to the public. The great man was slightly run down from the enormous duties which had pressed upon him since the very beginning of his giant enterprise, and was to take a long and much-needed rest in the town of his birth and in the quiet old house where he had spent his boyhood. The mayor and aldermen and a brass-band had met him as he stepped from his private car at the station, and he was welcomed with spirited music and a short but ponderous speech on the part of the mayor. Then John Dilk, in a new suit of clothes and a much-worn silk top-hat, haughtily drove his master and the doting General through the streets, across the square, and on to the old Galt mansion.
The crowd which had followed the carriage from the station to the square gradually dispersed, and the two friends were alone when they alighted at the gate.
“Do you see those chairs and that table under the oaks on our lawn?” Sylvester asked, with the bubbling pride of a boy in a victorious ball game, as they were strolling up the wide moss-grown brick walk.
Galt nodded, and smiled tentatively.
“Madge is going to give us a cup of tea outdoors,” Sylvester explained. “It was her own idea. It is warm inside, and that is the shadiest, coolest spot in Stafford. The tea will refresh us. Shall we go now, or do you want to nose over the old house first?”
“I see Mrs. Wilson looking out from a window,” Galt answered. “I think I'd better go in for a moment, anyway. The good old soul is in her best bib and tucker, and might feel hurt.”
“Right you are!” the General said, approvingly. “You haven't risen too high, my boy, to think of those dependent on you. Run in and take possession, and I'll stir Madge up. A cup of tea of my particular blend will do you good after your dusty ride.”
His niece was coming across the grass as the old gentleman reached the tea-table. Her arms were full of fresh-cut roses, which she proceeded to arrange in an old-fashioned silver punch-bowl in the centre of the table.
“I suppose you heard the band and cheering?” the old man said, as he stood watching her and rubbing his thin hands together in suppressed delight.