'How well I soon shall know them all,' said Albinia, looking at her
husband, though she knew she could not see his face, as he leant back
silently in his corner, and she tried to say no more. She was sure
that coming home was painful to him; he had been so willing to put it
off, and to prolong those pleasant seaside days, when there had been
such pleasant reading, walking, musing, and a great deal of happy
silence.

Down the hill, and a little way on level ground--houses on one side,
something like hedge or shrubbery on the other--a stop--a gate
opened--a hollow sound beneath the carriage, as though crossing a
wooden bridge--trees--bright windows--an open door--and light
streaming from it.

'Here is your home, Albinia,' said that deep musical voice that she
loved the better for the subdued melancholy of the tones, and the
suppressed sigh that could not be hidden.

'And my children,' she eagerly said, as he handed her out, and,
springing to the ground, she hurried to the open door opposite,
where, in the lamp-light, she saw, moving about in shy curiosity and
embarrassment, two girls in white frocks and broad scarlet sashes,
and a boy, who, as she advanced, retreated with his younger sister to
the fireplace, while the elder one, a pretty, and rather formal
looking girl of twelve, stood forward.

Albinia held out her arms, saying, 'You are Lucy, I am sure,' and
eagerly kissed the girl's smiling, bright face.