Mrs. Foster’s servants were already at Kirklands, making preparations for the arrival.  The old rooms were being opened up once again, and shafts of golden sunlight streamed through the long-darkened windows, on the dark-panelled walls, as if to herald joyously the good news that “life and thought” were coming back to the deserted house.

As the carriage followed the windings of the avenue, the grey gables of the old mansion began to peep through the green boughs, their first appearance being announced by a jubilant chorus from the elder boys on the box, which made little Willie feel painfully that his range of vision was far from satisfactory.  Presently, however, the timeworn walls could be seen by all the party, as the carriage wheeled round the old terrace, and the travellers reached the end of their journey.  Then eager feet began to trot up and down the grass-grown steps, and climb on the old carved railing, where the griffins fascinated little Grace by their stony stare, as they used to do her mother years ago.  The long-silent corridors began to resound with joyous laughter, as the merry party rambled through the old rooms, wishing to identify each place with historical recollections, founded on their mother’s and Uncle Walter’s stories.  And was that really the tree that Uncle Walter made believe to be the rigging of a ship, and one day fell from one of its highest boughs?  And where used they to keep their rabbits, and in what room did they learn their lessons?  These, and such questions, were generally asked in chorus, to which their mother had to endeavour to reply, as she wandered among the familiar rooms with her merry boys and girls.

“Mamma, do you know what I should like to see best of all?  Two things, mamma,” whispered little Grace, as she caught hold of her mother’s dress.

“And what would my little girl like to see—­the toys mamma used to play with when she was a little girl like Gracie?  I believe I’ve carried the key of the chest where they lie buried about with me all these years;” and Mrs. Foster began to look in the little basket she held in her hand for a shining bunch of keys.

“It wasn’t the toys I meant, though I should like to see them very much,” replied the little girl, who was more timid and gentle than her brothers and sisters, and generally required more encouragement to unburden her small mind, “it is the room where you taught Geordie that I want to see—­and Geordie’s grave among the heather.”

Some quick ears had caught a name that seemed to be a household word, and louder voices said, as the boy’s clustered round their mother, “Oh yes, mamma, do show us where you taught Geordie and little Jean.”

So Grace led the way through the dim passages that had once frightened little Jean, and whose gloom now made the small Grace cling close to her mother’s side.  The still-room was dark and unopened, for the servants had not thought it necessary to include it in their preparations.  Grace went to the window and undid the fastenings, and the yellow afternoon sun streamed on the dusty wooden bench where Geordie, and Jean, and Elsie used to sit.