A faint, fire-like flush still lingers in the west--all that is left of the dazzling pageant that the heavens sent to welcome me home.

I am looking toward it--away from my brothers and sisters--away from everybody--across the indistinct garden-beds--across the misty park, and the dark tree-tops, when a voice suddenly brings me back.
"Nancy, child!" it says, "is not it rather damp for you?
Would you mind putting _this_ on ?" I look up in a hurry, and see Sir Roger stooping over me, with an outspread cloak in his hands.
"Oh, thank you!" cry I, hurriedly, reddening--I do not quite know why--and with that same sort of sneaky feeling, as if the boys were laughing; "I am not one much apt to catch cold--none of us are--but I will, if you like." So saying, I drew it round my shoulders.

Then he goes, _in a minute_, without a second's lingering, back to the gravel-walk, to his wicker-chair, to grave, dry talk, to the friend of his infancy! I have an uncomfortable feeling that there is a silent and hidden laugh among the family.
"Barbara, my treasure!" says Algy, presently, in a mocking voice, "_might_ I be allowed to offer you our umbrella, and a pair of goloshes to defend you from the evening dews ?" "Hush!" cries Barbara, gently pushing him away, and stretching out her hand to me.

She is the only one that understands.

(Oh, why, _why_ did I ever laugh at him with them?
What is there to laugh at in him ?) "My poor Barbara!" continues Algy, in a tone of affected solicitude.