AT HOME.

Another sunset, red and gorgeous, over swelling English meadows, waving trees, and grassy terrace, lighting up with its crimson radiance the gray forest of Thetford Towers.

In the pretty, airy summer drawing-room, this red sunset streams through open western windows, kindling everything into living light.  It falls on the bright-haired girlish figure, dressed in floating white, seated in an arm-chair in the centre of the room, too childish-looking, you might fancy, at first sight, to be mamma to that fat baby she holds in her lap; but she is not a bit too childish.  And that is papa, tall and handsome, and happy, who leans over the chair and looks as men do look on what is the apple of their eye, and the pride of their heart.

“It’s high time baby was christened, Guy,” Lady Thetford-for, of course, Lady Thetford it is-was saying; “and, do you know, I am really at a loss for a name.  You won’t let me call him Guy, and I sha’n’t call him Noel-and so what is it to be?”

“Rupert, of course,” Sir Guy suggests; and little Lady Thetford pouts.

“He does not deserve the compliment.  Shabby fellow!  To keep wandering about the world as he does, and never to answer one’s letters; and I sent him half a ream last time, if I sent him a sheet, telling all about baby, and asking him to come and be godfather, and coaxing him with the eloquence of a female Demos-, the man in the tub you know.  And to think it should be all of no use!  To think of not receiving a line in return.  It is using me shamefully; and I don’t believe I will call baby Rupert.”

“Oh, yes you will, my dear!  Well, Smithers, what is it?”

For Mr. Smithers, the butler, stood in the doorway, with a very pale and startled face.

“It’s a gentleman-leastways a lady-leastways a lady and gentleman.  Oh! here they come theirselves!”

Mr. Smithers retired precipitately, still pale and startled of visage, as a gentleman, with a lady on his arm, stood before Sir Guy and Lady Thetford.

There was a half shout from the young baronet, a wild shriek from the young lady.  She sprung to her feet, and nearly dropped the precious baby.

“Rupert!  Aileen!”

She never got any further-this impetuous little Lady Thetford, for she was kissing first one, then the other, crying and laughing, and talking all in a breath.

“Oh! what a surprise this is!  Rupert my dear, my dear, I’m so glad to see you again!  O Aileen!  I never, never hoped for this!  Guy, O Guy, to think it should all come right at last!”

But Guy was wringing his brother’s hand, with bright tears standing in his eyes, and quite unable to reply.

“And this is the baby, May?  The wonderful baby you wrote me so much about,” Mr. Rupert Thetford said.  “A noble little fellow, upon my word; and a Thetford from top to toe.  Am I in season to be godfather?”

“Just in season.  The name was to have been Rupert in any case, but a moment ago I was scolding frightfully, because you had not answered my letter, little dreaming you were coming to answer in person.  And Aileen too!  Oh! my dear, my dear, sit down at once and tell me all about it.”

Mrs. Thetford smiles at the old impetuosity, and in very few words tells the story of the meeting and the marriage.

“Of course you remain in England?” Sir Guy eagerly asked, when he had heard the brief resume of those past five years.  “Of course Jocyln Hall is to be headquarters and home?”

“Yes,” Rupert says, his eyes for a moment lingering lovingly on his wife, “Jocyln Hall is home.  We have not yet been there; we came at once here to see the most wonderful baby of modern times-my handsome little namesake.”

“It is just like a fairy tale,” is all Lady Thetford can say then; but late that night, when the reunited friends were in their chambers, she lifted her golden head off the pillow, and looked at her husband entering the room.  “It’s so very odd, Guy,” slowly and drowsily, “to think that, after all, a Rupert Thetford should be Sir Noel’s Heir.”