His revery was broken by Oliver, who came in to ask him if he wished to go to meet her.  “Those Southern trains are always several hours late,” he said.  “I told my man to go over and ’phone me.”

“You are to have her in charge,” said Montague; “you had better see her first.  Tell her I will come in the evening.”  And so he went to the great apartment hotel—­the same to which Oliver had originally introduced him.  And there was Lucy.

She was just the same.  He could see it in an instant; there was the same joyfulness, the same eagerness; there was the same beauty, which had made men’s hearts leap up.  There was not a line of care upon her features—­she was like a perfect flower come to its fulness.

She came to him with both her hands outstretched.  “Allan!” she cried, “Allan!  I am so glad to see you!” And she caught his hands in hers and stood and gazed at him.  “My, how big you have grown, and how serious!  Isn’t he splendid, Ollie?”

Oliver stood by, watching.  He smiled drily.  “He is a trifle too epic for me,” he said.

“Oh, my, how wonderful it seems to see you!” she exclaimed.  “It makes me think of fifty things at once.  We must sit down and have a long talk.  It will take me all night to ask you all the questions I have to.”

Lucy was in mourning for her father, but she had contrived to make her costume serve as a frame for her beauty.  She seemed like a flaming ruby against a background of black velvet.  “Tell me how you have been,” she rushed on.  “And what has happened to you up here?  How is your mother?”

“Just the same,” said Montague; “she wants you to come around to-morrow morning.”

“I will,” said Lucy,—­“the first thing, before I go anywhere.  And Mammy Lucy!  How is Mammy Lucy?”

“She is well,” he replied.  “She’s beside herself to see you.”

“Tell her I am coming!” said she.  “I would rather see Mammy Lucy than the Brooklyn Bridge!”

She led him to a seat, placed herself opposite him, devouring him with her eyes.  “It makes me seem like a girl again to see you,” she said.

“Do you count yourself aged?” asked Montague, laughing.

“Oh, I feel old,” said Lucy, with a sudden look of fear,—­“you have no idea, Allan.  But I don’t want anybody to know about it!” And then she cried, eagerly, “Do you remember the swing in the orchard?  And do you remember the pool where the big alligator lived?  And the persimmons?  And Old Joe?”

Allan Montague remembered all these things; in the course of the half hour that followed he remembered pretty nearly all the exciting adventures which he and Oliver and Lucy had had since Lucy was old enough to walk.  And he told her the latest news about all their neighbours, and about all the servants whom she remembered.  He told her also about his father’s death, and how the house had been burned, and how they had sold the plantation and come North.