what manner. Let them receive her scornfully, triumphantly, if they wanted to—what did it matter? What did anything matter now?
Cousin Syringa opened the door in answer to her ring.
"My lands!" she exclaimed. "We wan't expecting you!"
Before Reba had a chance to reply, Aunt Augusta appeared on the threshold of her mother's room, peering out into the hall to find out who in the world could be ringing the bell on a Sunday at such an hour.
"Well, of all things!" Reba heard her exclaim, and suddenly two other figures appeared framed in two other door-ways—a stooped old man's, and an egg-shaped woman's. They all stared in silence at the yellow apparition before them.
"Who is it? What's the trouble? Why don't somebody come and tell me what's the matter?" a whining voice complained from the room behind Aunt Augusta.
"It's only I, Mother," called Reba; and she crossed the hall and went into her mother's room, Augusta stepping aside to allow her to pass. She went straight over to her mother's wheel-chair drawn up as usual close to the green-shaded drop-light. "See!" she said.
"You!" exclaimed her mother, blinking up at her. "Why, we didn't know you were coming!"
"We got no letter," announced Aunt Emma. They had all followed Reba into the invalid's room—all but Augusta.
"What's it mean?" she demanded, not stirring from her place by the door.
"Why, just that I've come home," Reba announced
