the simple words he used:--'Georgie, dear, come home?' 'Yes, papa,' and
she kissed his scrubby chin as he bent down from his horse. He would not
go to the station to meet her; but he had been waiting about behind the
hedge for an hour to see her come along. He rode beside the pony cart, but
Georgie did not say anything more, or ask after any one else.

As they turned a corner the farmer pointed ahead. 'There's your mother,
Georgie, looking over the garden wall.' The yearning mother had been there
these two hours, knowing that her darling could not arrive before a
certain time, and yet unable in her impatience to stay within. Those old
eyes were dim with tears under the spectacles as Georgie quietly kissed
her forehead, and then suddenly, with something like generous feeling, her
lips.

They went in, an old pointer, whose days in the stubble were nearly over,
following close at Georgie's heels, but without obtaining a pat for his
loving memory. The table was spread for tea--a snowy cloth, the whitest of
bread, the most delicious golden butter, the ham fresh cooked, as Georgie
might be hungry, the thick cream, the silver teapot, polished for Georgie,
and the bright flowers in the vase before her plate. The window was open,
with its view of the old, old hills, and a breath of summer air came in
from the meadow. The girl glanced round, frowned, and went upstairs to her
room without a word, passing on the landing the ancient clock in its tall
case, ticking loud and slow.

And this was 'home.' The whole place jarred upon her, fresh as she was
from a fine house in Belgravia. The sitting-room beneath, which she had so
quickly left, looked cheerful and homely, but it was that very homeliness
that jarred upon her. The teapot was real silver, but it was of
old-fashioned shape. Solid as the furniture was, and still after so many