throat. So many times had she walked here, and so happily. The dip in the hedge, the glimpse of rolling fields patched with woodland, the belt of timber that marked the grounds of Beech Lodge, the cluster of old trees with their pale gray trunks close by the roadside; then the white gates and tiny red-roofed cottage. Her fingers tightened on the girl’s strong arm.

“My dear, my dear,” she whispered. “Just two years ago!”

Jean nodded sympathetically but did not speak. She was staring up the drive at the house with its shining windows, its clustering ivy, and the wide door, in every timber of which seemed to be a welcome.

“Isn’t it strange?” she whispered. “So different, and yet so unchanged.” She paused, then went on uncertainly. “I sometimes wonder, mother, whether houses have some kind of consciousness and are aware of us who live in them. Isn’t it queer, but I feel now as though Beech Lodge was somehow glad to see us, and was wondering why we had never come before.”

Mrs. Millicent shook her head. “It’s a pretty fancy, child, but—”

Jean stopped, nearly opposite the white gates. “Who’s that at the window—your old room? Mother, it looks like Perkins!”

“It is Perkins. You knew she stayed on when the Thursbys left.”

“Yes, but I did not know she was still here. And yet I’m not surprised. She’s part of the house. I wonder if the Derricks like her.”

“She always had a very peculiar manner, but she was an excellent servant.”

Mrs. Millicent’s voice faltered. This inspection was becoming too poignant, and she moved on. It seemed that any moment there might emerge that well-remembered figure, with the straight, familiar form and those clear, thoughtful eyes. She had turned away, her lips trembling, when Jean spoke quickly and sharply.

“Mother, who is that?”

From the climbing rose-bushes that bordered the wide drive, a figure had emerged, shears in hand, a figure that halted and stared. The broad shoulders, the uncouth head, the powerful and deliberate movements of the man were unmistakable.

“Martin!” she said under her breath. “It’s Martin!”

Mrs. Millicent stopped, turned, and came unsteadily back. Then she too looked, and became weak and 

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