Alice leaned from the window, watching for the first glimpse of the well-remembered house.  She greeted every tree they passed with a lively look, and smiled gaily as the porter’s lodge presented itself.  The gates of it flew open as the carriage approached, and Exeter in its beauty met their view.  “Oh, uncle,” she said, turning from the window, “look! look!  Is there any place in the world like this?”

“No, indeed, Alice;” and he took a survey of the home which had been so blessed to him.  “How beautiful every thing looks! and how we will enjoy it, after a crowded, noisy hotel.  Anna, you are not sorry to see its familiar face again.  Ellen, my darling, we have not forgotten you—­Exeter is your home, too; you are as welcome as any of us.  Why, you look sober; not regretting Washington already?”

“No sir,” said Ellen, “I was thinking of other things.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, “we must look very happy this evening.  I wonder, Ellen, Mr. Barbour has not met us.”

“I suppose,” said Alice, laughing, “he is too much agitated at the thought of meeting Ellen again—­he will be over this evening, I dare say.”

“I am sorry I can’t keep my word with Mr. Barbour,” said Ellen, “but I have concluded to marry Abel Johnson, on Arthur’s recommendation, and I ought not to give good Mr. Barbour any false expectations.”

“You must know, dear uncle,” said Alice, “that Ellen and Arthur have been carrying on a postscript correspondence in my letters, and Arthur has turned matchmaker, and has been recommending Abel Johnson to Ellen.  They have fallen in love with each other, without having met, and that was the reason Ellen was so hard-hearted last winter.”

“Ah! that is the reason.  But you must take care of these Yankee husbands, Miss Ellen, if Mr. Kent be a specimen,” said Mrs. Weston.

“I am quite sure,” said Alice, “Arthur would not have such a friend.”

Mr. Weston smiled, and looked out again at home.  They were rapidly approaching the gates, and a crowd of little darkies were holding them open on each side.  “I wish Arthur were here,” said he.  “How long he has been away!  I associate him with every object about the place.”

Alice did not answer; Arthur was in her thoughts.  This was his home, every object with which she was surrounded breathed of him.  She had thought of it as her home, but she had no right here—­she was really only a guest.  The thought was new and painful to her.  Could the whole of her past existence have been dreamed away?—­had she indeed no claim to the place she loved best on earth—­was she dependant on the will of others for all the gay and joyous emotions that a few moments before filled her breast?  She thought again of Arthur, of his handsome appearance, his good and generous heart, his talents, and his unchanging love to her—­of Walter, and of all with which he had had to contend in the springtime of his life.  Of his faults, his sin, and his banishment; of his love to her, too, and the delusion under which she had labored, of her returning it.  Arthur would, ere long, know it all, and though he might forgive, her proud spirit rebelled at the idea that he would also blame.