Meanwhile the days passed on; the roads about Thorbury dried up and grew
better; in low, sheltered places, the grass showed a greenish hue; the
willows turned yellow, and people began to ponder over the catalogues of
seed merchants. At last, it was the third of April, and on that day, in
a large bright room of a New York boarding-house, kneeling in front of an
open trunk, were Mr. Ralph Haverley and his sister Miriam.

Presently Miriam, whose years had not yet reached fifteen, vigorously
pushed a pair of slippers into an unoccupied crevice in the trunk, and
then, drawing back, seated herself on a stool.

"The delightful thing about this packing is," she said, "that it will
never have to be done again. I am not going to any school, or any country
place to board; you are not going to a hotel, not to any house kept by
other people; our things do not have to be packed separately; we can put
them in anywhere where they will fit; we are both going to the same
place; we are going home, and there we shall stay."

"Always?" asked her brother, looking up with a smile.

"Always," answered Miriam. "When one gets a home, one stays there. At
least I do."

"And you will not even go away to school?" he asked.

"By no means," said his sister, looking at him with much earnestness. "I
have been to school ever since I was six years old,--nearly nine
years,--and I positively declare that that is long enough for any girl.
Others stay later, but then they do not begin so soon. As to finishing my