y thoughtful; and the pretty head, with the hair gathered in a
soft knot at the back, drooped somewhat as she looked out on the
fast-gathering snow.

She was wondering how Neal would be this time. During his last visit he
had seemed different. She wished that people would not change. Why was
one obliged to grow up? If they could only remain boys and girls
forever, what a lovely place the world would be! She had hated to have
Edith become engaged, and now in two days she was going to be married
and leave the old home forever. To be sure, she was to live in Brenton,
in a dear little house of her own, but it would not be the same thing at
all.

Of one thing Cynthia was sure. She would never marry and go away from
Oakleigh; she would stay with her father and mother forever. The next
wedding in the family would be either Jack's or Janet's. Jack had
overcome his shyness and become quite a "lady's man," and as for
Janet--but just then the young woman in question came into the room.

She was eleven years old now, tall for her age, and with her hair in a
"pig-tail," but the roguish look in her eyes showed that, like the Janet
of former times, she was ever ready for mischief.

She carried a pile of boxes in her arms, and was followed by Willy, who
staggered under a similar load, and by Mrs. Franklin, also with her arms
full.

"More wedding-presents," Janet announced. "Edith and Dennis have been
looking at them, and they sent them up for you to see and fix."

As she uttered the last words one of the boxes slipped, and away went a
quantity of articles over the floor--spoons, forks, gravy-ladles, and
salt-cellars--in wild confusion, cards scattered, and no means of
telling who sent what, nor in which box anything belonged.

"Janet," groaned Cynthia, "if that isn't just like you! You ought to be
called 'The Great American Dropper,' for everything goes from you."

"Never mind," returned Janet, cheerfully. "Willy, you pick them up while
I see who's coming. I hear wheels. It's a station carriage."

"Is it?" cried Cynthia. "Can it be already?"

"It's Aunt Betsey," was Janet's next piece of information.

"Oh!" came from Cynthia, in disappointed tones.

"Why, who did you think it was?" asked her young sister, turning and
surveying her calmly and critically. "Aren't you glad to see Aunt
Betsey? And why is your face so very red? Are you expecting any one
else?"

"No, only the boys," said Cynthia, busying herself with the scatt