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Spurred by her provoking eyes and the novel situation, he stated his business with an airy lightness and humor that seemed to justify his late companion’s estimate of his powers. But even in his cynical attitude he was unprepared for the girl’s reception of his news. He had expected some indignation or even harshness towards this man whom he was beginning to consider as a kind of detrimental outcast or prodigal, but he was astounded at the complete and utter indifference–the frank and heartless unconcern–with which she heard of his return. When she had followed the narrator rather than his story to the end, she languidly called her brothers from the adjoining room. “This gentleman, Mr. Grey, of the ‘Argus,’ has come across Jim–and Jim is calculating to come here and see father.”

The two brothers stared at Grey, slightly shrugged their shoulders with the same utter absence of fraternal sympathy or concern which the girl had shown, and said nothing.

“One moment,” said Grey a little warmly; “I have no desire to penetrate family secrets, but would you mind telling me if there is any grave reason why he should not come. Was there any scandalous conduct, unpardonable offense–let us even say–any criminal act on his part which makes his return to this roof impossible?”

The three looked at each other with a dull surprise that ended in a vacant wondering smile. “No, no,” they said in one voice. “No, only”–

“Only what?” asked Grey impatiently.

“Dad just hates him!”

“Like pizon,” smiled Almira.

The young editor rose with a slight increase of color. “Look here,” said the girl, whose dimples had deepened as she keenly surveyed him, as if detecting some amorous artifice under his show of interest for her brother. “Dad’s gone down to the sheepfold and won’t be back for an hour. Yo’ might bring–YO’ FRIEND–in.”

“He ain’t wantin’ anything? Ain’t dead broke? nor nothin’, eh?” suggested one of the brothers dubiously.

Grey hastened to assure them of Jim’s absolute solvency, and even enlarged considerably on his Australian fortune. They looked relieved but not interested.

“Go and fetch him,” said the witch, archly hovering near Grey with dancing eyes; “and mind YO’ come back, too!”

Grey hesitated a moment and then passed out in the dark porch. A dripping figure emerged from the trees opposite. It was Jim.

“Your sister and brothers will see you,” said Grey hastily, to avoid embarrassing details. “HE won’t be here for an hour. But I’d advise you to make the most of your time, and get the good-will of your sister.” He would have drawn back to let the prodigal pass in alone, but the man appealingly seized his arm, and Grey was obliged to re-enter with him. He noticed, however, that he breathed hard.

They turned slightly towards their relative, but did not offer to shake hands with him, nor did he with them. He sat down sideways on an unoffered chair. “The old house got burnt!” he said, wiping his lips, and then drying his wet hair with his handkerchief.

As the remark was addressed to no one in particular it was some seconds before the elder brother replied: “Yes.”

“Almira’s growed.”

Again no one felt called upon to answer, and Almira glanced archly at the young editor as if he might have added: “and improved.”

“You’ve done well?” returned one of the brothers tentatively.

“Yes, I’m all right,” said Jim.

There was another speechless interval. Even the conversational Grey felt under some unhallowed spell of silence that he could not break.

“I see the old well is there yet,” said Jim, wiping his lips again.

“Where dad was once goin’ to chuck you down for givin’ him back talk,” said the younger brother casually.

To Mr. Grey’s relief and yet astonishment, Jim burst into a loud laugh and rubbed his legs. “That’s so–how old times DO come back!”

“And,” said the bright-eyed Almira, “there’s that old butternut-tree that you shinned up one day when we set the hounds on you. Goodness! how you scooted!”