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“Sy, my balloon has got away; lend us a hand at catching him!”

“Sy, I want a lot of paste made, right off.”

“Sy, I’ve split my jacket down the back; come sew me up, there’s a dear!”

On beholding a stranger the young gentlemen suddenly lost their voices, found their manners, and with nods and grins took themselves away as quietly as could be expected of six clumping boots and an unlimited quantity of animal spirits in a high state of effervescence. As they trooped off, an unmistakable odor of burnt milk pervaded the air, and the crash of china, followed by an Irish wail, caused Mrs. Dean to clap on her three shawls again and excuse herself in visible trepidation.

Paul laughed quietly to himself, then turned sober and said, “Poor Psyche!” with a sympathetic sigh. He roamed about the room impatiently till the sound of voices drew him to the window to behold the girl coming up the walk with her tired old father leaning on one arm, the other loaded with baskets and bundles, and her hands occupied by a remarkably ugly turtle.

“Here we are!” cried a cheery voice, as they entered without observing the new-comer. “I’ve done all my errands and had a lovely time. There is Tom’s gunpowder, Dick’s fishhooks, and one of Professor Gazzy’s famous turtles for Harry. Here are your bundles, mother dear, and, best of all, here’s father home in time for a good rest before dinner. I went to the mill and got him.”

Psyche spoke as if she had brought a treasure; and so she had, for though Mr. Dean’s face usually was about as expressive as the turtle’s, it woke and warmed with the affection which his daughter had fostered till no amount of flannel could extinguish it. His big hand patted her cheek very gently as he said, in a tone of fatherly love and pride,–

“My little Sy never forgets old father, does she?”

“Good gracious me, my dear, there’s such a mess in the kitchen! Katy’s burnt up the pudding, put castor-oil instead of olive in the salad, smashed the best meat-dish, and here’s Mr. Gage come to dinner,” cried Mrs. Dean in accents of despair as she tied up her head in a fourth shawl.

“Oh, I’m so glad; I’ll go in and see him a few minutes, and then I’ll come and attend to everything; so don’t worry, mother.”

“How did you find me out?” asked Psyche as she shook hands with her guest and stood looking up at him with all the old confiding frankness in her face and manner.

“The violets showed me the way.”

She glanced at the posy in his button-hole and smiled.

“Yes, I gave them to Adam, but I didn’t think you would guess. I enjoyed your work for an hour to-day, and I have no words strong enough to express my admiration.”

“There is no need of any. Tell me about yourself: what have you been doing all this year?” he asked, watching with genuine satisfaction the serene and sunny face before him, for discontent, anxiety, and sadness were no longer visible there.

“I’ve been working and waiting,” she began.

“And succeeding, if I may believe what I see and hear and read,” he said, with an expressive little wave of the book as he laid it down before her.

“My diary! I didn’t know I had lost it. Where did you find it?”

“By the brook where I stopped to rest. The moment I saw your name I shut it up. Forgive me, but I can’t ask pardon for reading a few pages of that little gospel of patience, love, and self-denial.”

She gave him a reproachful look, and hurried the telltale book out of sight as she said, with a momentary shadow on her face,–

“It has been a hard task; but I think I have learned it, and am just beginning to find that my dream is ‘a noonday light and truth,’ to me.”