e wretched little hypocrite, with lowered hat-brim.

"You have? By jingo! Who from?" Ralph dropped her hand, and the ruddy
color went from his face suddenly.

"From a New York gentleman at Mrs. Raymond's, and--and--"

"Go on," said Ralph shortly, his voice cold and hard.

"He said he had built--no, bought--no, had a beautiful home, and asked
me to share it, and I didn't know what on earth to say, so--I told
him--that I wasn't Kittie, and then he changed his mind."

"Kathy!" What a blessing it was that no one was anywhere near, for right
there in the sunshine, Ralph threw his arm around her and drew her
close, to kiss the saucy lips and eyes. "How could you? I'm stunned out
of a year's growth! Was it Murray?"

"Well, I don't think you'll miss it," laughed Kat. "Yes, it was Mr.
Murray, and Kittie's going to share that home."

"You don't say so. We'll go off doubly and very soon, too, for of course
the little mother will be willing."

"Yes, of course," said Kat.

So they strolled on in the sunshine, and the sweetest story in the
world, gray with age, yet fresh as spring-time in their hearts, made the
sunshine brighter than ever before to their happy eyes.

CHAPTER XXV.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT. FIVE YEARS LATER.

The house was lighted from attic to basement, and though it was
Christmas Eve, the air was like spring, for nature sometimes turns
freakish, and smiles on us when we are expecting the cold shoulder. Here
and there, a window was open, for the Derings always did love plenty of
air; and so a merry sound of laughter and gay voices was wafted out into
the night air, and the old trees rustled joyfully, as though the sound
were a familiar and happy one to them, and it did their old bones--or
bark, good to hear it. Even the vines, that clambered about as gayly now
as ever--only closer and thicker, tapped on the windows and nodded their
leafless heads, as though in welcome, and fairly rustled with joy clear
down to their aged roots, to see all the dear children at home once
more.

The front door stood hospitably open, as it had always had a trick of
doing, and in the wide old hall were two children, one of whom sat on
the stairs, with a sober, thoughtful face, while the other, in
diminutive petticoats, was trying to stand on his head against the stout
bannister-post. One failure followed another, in discouraging
succession, but the little fellow kept determinedly at it, in spi