'fore dinner, so I'll jes' show ye where to," and she led the way
upstairs and into the "front parlor bedroom."

"There," she said, "make yourself comf'table, an' dinner 'll be ready in
about ten minutes."

For a moment John mentally rubbed his eyes. Then he turned and caught
both of Mrs. Bixbee's hands and looked at her, speechless. When he found
words he said: "I don't know what to say, nor how to thank you properly.
I don't believe you know how kind this is."

"Don't say nothin' about it," she protested, but with a look of great
satisfaction. "I done it jes' t' relieve my mind, because ever sence you
fus' come I ben worryin' over your bein' at that nasty tavern," and she
made a motion to go.

"You and your brother," said John earnestly, still holding her hands,
"have made me a gladder and happier man this Christmas day than I have
been for a very long time."

"I'm glad on't," she said heartily, "an' I hope you'll be comf'table an'
contented here. I must go now an' help Sairy dish up. Come down to the
settin' room when you're ready," and she gave his hands a little
squeeze.

"Aunt Po----, I beg pardon, Mrs. Bixbee," said John, moved by a sudden
impulse, "do you think you could find it in your heart to complete my
happiness by giving me a kiss? It's Christmas, you know," he added
smilingly.

[Illustration: DAVID HARUM, Act III]

Aunt Polly colored to the roots of her hair. "Wa'al," she said, with a
little laugh, "seein' 't I'm old enough to be your mother, I guess 't
won't hurt me none," and as she went down the stairs she softly rubbed
her lips with the side of her forefinger.

John understood now why David had looked out of the bank window so often
that morning. All his belongings were in Aunt Polly's best bedroom,
having been moved over from the Eagle while he and David had been in the
office. A delightful room it was, in immeasurable contrast to his
squalid surroundings at that hostelry. The spacious bed, with its snowy
counterpane and silk patchwork "comf'table" folded on the foot, the
bright fire in the open stove, the big bureau and glass, the soft
carpet, the table for writing and reading standing in the bay, his books
on the broad mantel, and his dressing things laid out ready to his hand,
not to mention an ample supply of _dry_ towels on the rack.

The poor fellow's life during the weeks which he had lived in Homeville
had been utterly in contrast with any previous experience. Nevertheless
he had