stia with her needle in her hand--a little paler, a little thinner
than she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. For Celestia is
"ambitious," in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in Merleville
and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home.

The squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used to
do in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. He is thinner,
too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his face
suggestive of "appeals" and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles on
his brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking
out for the Capitol and the White House in the distance still. "He is
growing old while he is young," as Mrs Nasmyth says, "Yankees have a
knack of doing--standing still at middle age and never changing more."
But despite the wrinkles, the squire's face is a pleasant one to see,
and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice
bits to Celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in law
or politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, the
more that he has Celestia to enjoy it with him.

As for her, seven years have failed to convince her that Mr Greenleaf
is not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. And as her opinion
has survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire in
a giant's gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which the
squire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. At
this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as he
draws his chair a little nearer and says:

"See, here, Celestia. Listen to what Daniel Webster says," and then
goes on to read.

"Now, what do you think of that?" he asks, with sparkling eyes. Hers
are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure,
whatever that may be. Not that she has a very clear idea of what has
been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles,
and the energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars have got
to Boston."

"See here, Elliott, my son. Ain't you tired riding?" asks papa, gently.

"Ain't you afraid you'll wake sister?" says mamma. "I wouldn't make
quite so much noise, dear."

"Why, mother, I'm the cars," says Elliott.

"But hadn't you better go out into the yard? Carlo! Where's Carlo? I
haven't seen Carlo for a long time. Where's Carlo?"

It is evident Solom