Margaret had been home two hours—two hours of breathless questions, answers, tears, and laughter—two hours of delighted wandering about the house and grounds.

In the nursery she had seen the little woolly dog that lay on the floor just as she had left it five years before; and out on the veranda steps she had seen the great stone lions that had never quite faded from her memory. And always at her side had walked the sweet-faced lady of her dreams, only now the lady was very real, with eyes that smiled on one so lovingly, and lips and hands that kissed and caressed one so tenderly.

“And this is home—my home?” Margaret asked in unbelieving wonder.

“Yes, dear,” answered Mrs. Kendall.

“And you are my mother, and I am Margaret Kendall, your little girl?”

“Yes.”

“And the little dog on the floor—that was mine, and—and it’s been there ever since?”

“Yes, ever since you left it there long ago. I—I could not bear to have any one move it, or touch it.”

“And I was lost then—right then?”

“No, dear. We traveled about for almost a year. You were five when I lost you.” Mrs. Kendall’s voice shook. Unconsciously she drew Margaret into a closer embrace. Even now she was scarcely sure that it was Margaret—this little maid who had stepped so suddenly out of the great silence that had closed about her four long years before.

Margaret laughed softly, and nestled in the encircling arms.

“I like it—this,” she confided shyly. “You see, I—I hain’t had it before. Even the dream-lady didn’t do—this.”

“The

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