In the midst of their merriment they heard the sound of hoof-beats, and,
turning, saw the family carriage approaching, containing both Mr.
Underwood and his sister.
"You two children seem to be enjoying yourselves!" was Mr. Underwood's
comment as the carriage stopped.
Darrell sprang to Mrs. Dean's assistance as she alighted, while Kate
Underwood ran down the steps to meet her father. Both greeted Darrell
warmly, but Mrs. Dean retained his hand a moment as she looked at him
with genuine motherly interest.
"I'm glad the truant has returned," she said, with her quiet smile; "I
only hope it seems as good to you to come home as it does to us to have
you here!"
Darrell was touched by her unusual kindness. "You can rest assured that
it does, mother," he said, earnestly. He was astonished at the effect of
his words: her face flushed, her lips trembled, and as she passed on
into the house her eyes glistened with tears.
Darrell looked about him in bewilderment. "What have I said?" he
questioned; "how did I wound her feelings?"
"She lost a son years ago, and she's never got over it," Mr. Underwood
explained, briefly.
"You did not hurt her feelings--she was pleased," Kate hastened to
reassure him; "but did she never speak to you about it?"
"Never," Darrell replied.
"Well, that is not to be wondered at, for she seldom alludes to it. He
died years ago, before I can remember, but she always grieves for him;
that was the reason," she added, reflectively, half to herself, "that
she always loved Harry better than she did me."
"Better than you, you jealous little Puss!" said her father, pinching
her cheek; "don't you have love enough, I'd like to know?"
"I can never have too much, you know, papa," she answered, very
seriously, and Darrell, watching, saw in the brown eyes for the first
time the wistful look he had seen in the two portraits.
She soon followed her aunt, but her father and Darrell remained outside
talking of business matters until summoned to dinner. On entering the
house Darrell saw on every hand evidences of the young life in the old
home. There was just a pleasant touch of disorder in the rooms he had
always seen kept with such precision: here a bit of unfinished
embroidery; there a book open, face down, just where the fair reader had
left it; the piano was open and sheets of music lay scattered over it.
From every side came the fragrance of flowers, and in the usually sombre
dining-room Darrell noted the fireplace nearly concealed by palms and
potted plants, the chandelier trimmed with trailing vines, the epergne
of roses and ferns on the table, and the tiny boutonnières at his plate
and Mr. Underwood's. With a smile of thanks at the happy young face
opposite, he appropriated the one intended for himself, but Mr.
Underwood, picking up the one beside his plate, sat twirling it in his
fingers with a look of mock perplexity.