But Joan had not shed many tears since then. There was no happier home
in all the valley than the white cottage, over which the birch-trees
lovingly stretched their delicate fringes, her husband, the village
carrier, used to think when he came within sight of it, after his day's
journey was over, his parcels all delivered, and his horses "suppered"
for the night. Generally his bright-looking wife was hovering near the
door, waiting his coming with a little group round her as merry as the
one that was now making the woods of Kirklands ring with their
light-hearted laughter.
Grace had not told the children that she meant to take them to see
little Jean that evening. She wanted first to go alone to the cottage
and see her quietly there, for she had many things to hear and ask.
Still, Grace had not been altogether a stranger to the home life there.
Sometimes a letter, written and addressed with laborious carefulness,
had followed her to remote foreign stations, and brought pleasant
memories of dewy heather and fragrant birches as she read it among
waving oleanders and palms. During all those years Grace had watched
over Jean's welfare, and many things in her pretty home told of her
thoughtful remembrance of Geordie's sister.
[Illustration: Old Scenes Revisited.]
The arrival of the family at Kirklands had taken place a few days
earlier than was intended, so Jean had not happened to hear the news,
and was all unconscious of the pleasure in store for her.
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