remained only a picturesque lifting of rustic gardens, brown roofs,
gables, spires, and cupolas above the mirroring lake: seen from the
railway this bitter night, the invisible terraces and streets were now
pricked out by symmetrical lines and curves of sparkling lights, which
glittered through the leafless boughs and seemed to encircle the hill
like a diadem.

Central in the chiefest square, and yet preserving its old lordly
isolation in a wooded garden, the homestead of Enoch Lane stood with all
its modern additions and improvements. Already these included not only
the latest phases of decoration, but various treasures brought by the
second generation from Europe, which they were wont to visit, but from
which they always contentedly returned to their little provincial town.
Whether there was some instinctive yearning, like the stirred sap of
great forests, in their wholesome pioneer blood, or whether there was
some occult fascination in the pretty town-crested hill itself, it was
still certain that the richest inhabitants always preferred to live in
Lakeville. Even the young, who left it to seek their fortune elsewhere,
came back to enjoy their success under the sylvan vaults of this vast
ancestral roof. And that was why, this 22d of December, 1870, the whole
household of Gabriel Lane was awaiting the arrival from California of
his brother, Sylvester Lane, at the old homestead which he had left
twenty years ago.

"And you don't know how he looks?" said Kitty Lane to her father.

"I do, perfectly; rather chubby, with blue eyes, curly hair, fair skin,
and blushes when you speak to him."

"Papa!"