child who had remained at her
post.

"Well, Aunt Doris, I don't want to wait until next winter to be married.
Ken writes that he will have Mrs. Tweksbury safely settled in New York
by the first of June----" Emily Tweksbury had fled the influenza and
gone to Bermuda only to fall victim to pneumonia. Kenneth Raymond had
been summoned, to what was supposed to be her death-bed, but which she
indignantly refused to accept as such.

"When women are as old as I, Ken," she had whispered as he bent over
her, "they consign them to death-beds too easily. Give me a month, boy,
and I'll go back with you."

Kenneth had given her a month, then two weeks extra; he was bringing her
back now--a frail old woman, but one in whose heart the determination to
live was yet strong.

"But, darling, we'd have to give up the beautiful wedding--Mrs.
Tweksbury could never stand the excitement now, or even this summer."

Doris's voice was more suggestive of attention as she now spoke. Martin
waited.

"I know, Aunt Dorrie, but I am sure she would rather have me and Ken
married than come to our wedding. Listen, duckie! Suppose, after Joan
comes, we plan the dearest little service in the Chapel--I'm sure we
could snatch Father Noble as he flits by. There would be you and Uncle
David and Joan, and perhaps Clive could wrench himself away, and Mary
and Uncle Jed--and," a tender pause, "and--Ken and me! We could make the
Chapel beautiful with flowers from The Gap--our flowers--and then I
could help Ken with Mrs. Tweksbury--for you, Aunt Dorrie, will have
Joan."

Martin blinked his eyes. He never admitted a mistiness to the extent of
wiping them. He listened for Doris's next words.

"Childie, it sounds enticing and just like you. I will talk it over with
Uncle David."

The voices upstairs fell into a silence and Martin got up and paced the
room.

A few minutes later Doris came down the stairs and, singing softly,
entered the living room.

There was welcome in her eyes; the languor and helpless expression had
faded from her face.

"Davey," she said, "I felt the draught--you have left the door open--I
knew you were here.

"Oh! Davey, to-day the twenty-year limit seems quite the possible thing.
My dear, my dear, Joan is coming home!"

Martin met Doris midway of the big room. He was startled at the change
in her.

"I heard that a telegram had come. It's great news, Doris."

"Queer, isn't it, Davey, how one can brace and bear a good deal wh