One evening nearly a fortnight after Mrs. Temple had received the letter from John Temple announcing his marriage to May, the windows of Woodlea Hall were all alight in expectation of their return.

Mrs. Temple had been in a state of great, though suppressed, excitement all day. The rooms were bright with flowers, and by her orders the whole place was arranged to appear to the best advantage. As for Mrs. Temple herself she wore an evening dress of black velvet, having discarded her deep mourning in honor of the occasion.

Yet she was feeling far from happy. This girl, this stranger, who was coming to take her place, she thought, she naturally regarded with hidden though deep resentment. John Temple could not have acted otherwise, she told herself, but this did not lessen the bitterness of her heart.

And when at last the carriage which contained John Temple and his young wife drove up to the entrance of the Hall, Mrs. Temple went forward, pale, handsome, and agitated, to receive them. She clasped John’s hand first, who warmly shook hers, and then—as though half-unwillingly—she looked at the fair girlish face by his side.

“This is May,” said John Temple, in kindly tones. “May, my dear, this is Mrs. Temple, my poor uncle’s widow.”

The two women shook hands after this, and exchanged a few remarks on the journey and the weather. May felt embarrassed and slightly overawed by this handsome woman who looked at her so coldly. It was not like going to her own home, somehow, she felt. John indeed referred to Mrs. Temple about everything, and showed his uncle’s widow the greatest consideration and respect.

And when an hour or so afterward dinner was announced, John Temple smilingly offered one arm to Mrs. Temple and the other to May.

“I must do double duty to-night, you see,” he said; and when they reached the dining-room he deliberately led Mrs. Temple to the head of the table, and indicated to May to sit at the side. But Mrs. Temple drew back.

“Nay,” she said, “this is your wife’s place.”

“Certainly not,” answered John Temple, decidedly; “this is your place, as it always has been.”

Mrs. Temple said nothing more at this time; she sat opposite to John, and May, without any feeling of anger in her heart, took the chair her husband had assigned to her. She was looking very pretty, but somehow Mrs. Temple could not understand the expression of her face. There was no elation there, nor pride in her new position. Now when the first nervousness of her arrival was over, she looked very much as she had done in the wards at St. Phillip’s.

But there were no allusions made to the past. John talked of Brighton, and of the theaters they had gone to in town, and to all outward seeming this first evening at Woodlea might have been an ordinary home-coming of a young couple from their bridal tour. But hidden in the hearts of the three present was the knowledge that this was not so. The storm was over, but its trace was there.

And the next morning a little incident occurred, which struck a somewhat chill feeling into May’s heart. Breakfast was just over, and as John Temple rose from the table, he said pleasantly, looking at Mrs. Temple:

“And how are you two going to amuse yourselves to-day?”

“In any manner you like, or that Mrs. John Temple likes,” answered Mrs. Temple.

“If you do not mind, John,” said May, rather quickly, “I should like to go over to Woodside this morning to see my father, as I think he will expect me to do so. And,” she added, with rather a wistful little smile, looking up in his face, “I hope you will come with me.”

But John Temple’s brow clouded, and he slightly shrugged his shoulders.

“My dear child,” he said, “that is a luxury which I am really not prepared to encounter. And why be in such a hurry to go over to Woodside?”

“I think my father would be disappointed if I did not go,” answered May, gently, but her face flushed and her eyes fell; “but I can go alone.”

“Then you had better drive over,” said John Temple. “And what would you like to do, Rachel?”

“Do you feel in the humor for a ride?” replied Mrs. Temple. “It is a fine morning; suppose we have a ride, John?”

“All right; what time shall I order the carriage and the horses then?”

“Shall we say eleven?” said Mrs. Temple, and she looked at May, but May’s eyes were still cast down. They, however, settled it thus, and when May returned to the morning-room about an hour later, she found Mrs. Temple already there, dressed in her habit, and John Temple talking to her.

“I hope May is not disappointed because I do not care to go to Woodside?” John was saying.

“She could not expect you to do so,” answered Mrs. Temple, just as May entered the room.

She heard the words, and somehow felt that they had been talking of her. But when a few minutes later the carriage and the riding-horses came round John Temple led his young wife to the carriage and handed her in, and nodded smilingly to her as he was turning away.

“Have you any message for my father?” said May, bending forward.

“Anything you like,” answered John, still smiling; and then he went back to the house, and May was driven in state to her old home.

And the arrival at Woodside of one of the Hall carriages, drawn by two handsome horses, with their black rosetted heads, and the servants also in mourning for their late master, naturally created quite a sensation at the homestead. Mr. Churchill was not in the house at the time, but one of the grooms hastily went in search of him to the stables. As for Mrs. Churchill, she no sooner heard that her stepdaughter was in the house than she hurried upstairs to change her dress, though she had previously determined to make no difference in her manner to May.

But the two prancing horses outside and the handsome carriage influenced her in spite of herself. She went into the drawing-room quite in a flutter, to find May standing there looking a little pensively around. What she had gone through since she had been in this room May was thinking. But Mrs. Churchill’s effusive welcome interrupted her reflections.

“Well, my dear, welcome home,” said Mrs. Churchill, and she kissed her stepdaughter as she had never kissed her before. “We heard you had arrived at the Hall last night, and your father was hoping that you could come over to see us this morning; and it’s very good of you to have done so.”

“Oh, I am very pleased to come,” answered May, with her sweet smile. “And the boys; how are the boys?”

“They are very well, my dear. They are both at school this morning, but they are looking forward to seeing you. They have talked of nothing else since your father was in London last.”

“I have brought them each a present,” said May, “and I hope they will like them. Will you give my kind love to them both? The presents are in the carriage.”

At this moment Mr. Churchill hurried into the room and caught his fair daughter in his strong arms, and kissed her vigorously.

“Well, May, my pet, and how are you? More like a Mayflower than ever, eh, May?” he added, holding May a little apart from him, and looking at her with eyes brimful of pride and pleasure. “Well, my girl, welcome to your new home! It’s kind of you to come over to see your old father the very first day you have spent at the Hall.”

“Dear father, of course I came,” said May, gently.

“And madam? She is still there, I hear; but remember, May, you’re mistress now, so don’t be put upon by any of them.”

“Oh! she is very kind.”

“Kind! I should think so; why should she not be kind? But you’re the squire’s wife, you know, now, May, and you must show her that you quite understand this. And how is your husband?”

“He is looking much better again; he has gone out for a ride with Mrs. Temple this morning.”

“Humph! Well, you should ride with him yourself, May. No one has a smarter seat on horseback than you, and I’d let them all see this.”

And during the rest of May’s visit Mr. Churchill constantly harped on this point. She was to assert herself, but May knew that, even had she wished to do so, she would have found it very difficult.

For the night before, when they were alone, John Temple had spoken to his wife on the subject of Mrs. Temple’s position in the house.

“You see, May,” he had said, “I came here and became heir of this property under very peculiar circumstances. I stepped into the place of Mrs. Temple’s only child, and therefore I feel that to disturb her in any way as mistress of the house, where she would have remained mistress had her boy lived, would be at once ungentlemanly and ungrateful of me. This is why I took her to the head of the table to-night, and I am sure you have the good taste and the good feeling to understand my wishes on the subject.”

“Then is she going to live here always?” May ventured to ask.

“She will live here, of course, as long as she wishes to do so. She is my uncle’s widow, and this was his home, and I wish her to feel that it is still her home.”

Thus May had her own position clearly defined to her. And as she listened to her father’s advice she had no idea of acting on it. But she did not tell him this; she parted with him affectionately, and Mr. Churchill was a proud man as he led her to her carriage and handed her in.

“I’ll bring your stepmother some day over to dine with you, May,” he said, before he parted with his daughter. “I want to see you in your own house; fix some day with your husband for us to come. And now good-by, my pet.”

Then, when May was gone, he returned to the house in a very boastful mood.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she, Sarah?” he remarked to his wife. “But I gave her a bit of advice about madam; madam must be taught her place, and I’ll see that she is too.”

But in the days that followed May was made to feel more than once that Mrs. Temple exercised a considerable influence over her husband’s mind. John Temple was always kind to May, always gentle, but he had fallen back into that easy-going frame of mind which had been habitual to him before he was aroused from it by his bitter remorse and self-reproach. Now, he thought, everything was right for his “little May.” He had made her his wife; he bought her a pony-carriage for herself, and two handsome ponies, so that she could drive wherever she wished, and he allowed her plenty of money, and did not object to her spending it lavishly among the poor and sick.

“I know what suffering and sickness is now, you know, John,” she one day said to him, a little wistfully; but John did not encourage her to talk on the subject. He, in fact, totally ignored, and tried to forget, the miserable time after May had left him. It disturbed him to think of it, and John Temple did not love unpleasant thoughts.

Thus weeks passed away, and May, with her sweet reasonableness of conduct, had almost won some sort of regard from the woman who was yet jealous of her, when one morning May received a letter from her father, plainly expressing a wish that he and his wife should be asked to dine at the Hall.

“It looks so odd to other people, you know, my dear,” he wrote, “and I hope you will not allow anyone to cast a slight on your own father,” and so on.

This letter disturbed May exceedingly, for she knew John Temple would not like to receive Mrs. Churchill at his table, and that Mrs. Temple also strongly objected to the whole family. Once she had had her two young brothers to spend the day with her at the Hall, and Mrs. Temple on that occasion had refused to appear.

“It won’t do, you know, May, my dear,” John had said to her afterward; “Rachel has a strong and natural objection to the boys on account of the death of her own lad in the game where they were playing. So don’t ask them again.”

May had never done so, though she knew they thought it was unkind of her. She took them presents and gave them money, but she dare not ask them to the Hall. And now about her father and stepmother she knew not what to do.

At last she took courage and went to her husband, and put her father’s letter in his hand.

“I wish to ask them so much, John,” she said.

John read the letter, shrugged his shoulders, and then put his hand kindly on his wife’s arm.

“It will be an awful bore, little woman,” he said.

“Just for once, John,” pleaded May, and John Temple finally allowed the invitation to be sent.

But May never wished for her stepmother to be asked to dine at the Hall again. Mrs. Churchill went determined to show—to use one of her husband’s phrase—that “she was as good as any of them.” She went overdressed, to be received by her stepdaughter and Mrs. Temple both in black, and Mrs. Temple took a malicious pleasure in leading her on to make herself ridiculous.

John Temple fidgeted in his chair, but Mrs. Temple enjoyed his discomfiture. She wished to make him feel what sort of family he had married into, and she certainly succeeded in her design. In fact the dinner was a most uncomfortable one, and only Mrs. Temple was amused.

“My dear May, please never ask that good lady here again,” said John Temple, after his father-in-law and his wife had taken their departure; “I really can not stand her.”

“Well, I must say,” remarked Mrs. Churchill to her spouse, as they drove home together after the entertainment was over, “that a more stupid evening I never spent; it seems to me that May can scarcely be called the mistress of her own house, with Mrs. Temple sitting at the head of the table, and that kind of thing. However, we’ve dined there, and the neighbors can’t say we’ve not, and we need not tell them it was anything but pleasant.”

“Well,” answered Mr. Churchill, who was also much disappointed, “I think it is a pity May does not make more of herself. However, Mr. John Temple is my landlord as well as my son-in-law, so we must just make the best of things.”