the 7:50 train
and there was Sara to pounce on him. He told me afterwards that no
angel could have been so beautiful a vision to him as Sara was,
standing there on the wet platform with her tweed skirt held up and a
streaming umbrella over her head, telling him he must come back to
Atwater because Beatrice wanted him to.

But just at the moment of his coming I didn't care how he had come or
who had brought him. I just realized that he was there and that was
enough. Sara came in behind him. Walter's wet arms were about me and I
was standing there with my thin-slippered feet in a little pool of
water that dripped from his umbrella. But Sara never said a word about
colds and dampness. She just smiled, went on into the sitting-room,
and shut the door. Sara understood.

The Unforgotten One

It was Christmas Eve, but there was no frost, or snow, or sparkle. It
was a green Christmas, and the night was mild and dim, with hazy
starlight. A little wind was laughing freakishly among the firs around
Ingleside and rustling among the sere grasses along the garden walks.
It was more like a night in early spring or late fall than in
December; but it was Christmas Eve, and there was a light in every
window of Ingleside, the glow breaking out through the whispering
darkness like a flame-red blossom swung against the background of the
evergreens; for the children were coming home for the Christmas
reunion, as they always came--Fritz and Margaret and Laddie and Nora,
and Robert's two boys in the place of Robert, who had died fourteen
years ago--and the old house must put forth its best of light and
good cheer to welcome them.

Doctor Fritz and his brood were the last to arrive, driving up to the
hall door amid a chorus of welcoming barks from the old dogs and a
hail of merry calls from the group in the open doorway.

"We're all here now," said the little mother, as she put her arms
about the neck of her stalwart firstborn and kissed his bearded face.
There were handshakings and greetings and laughter. Only Nanny, far
back in the shadows of the firelit hall, swallowed a resentful sob,
and wiped two bitter tears from her eyes with her little red hand.

"We're not all here," she murmured under her breath. "Miss Avis isn't
here. Oh, how can they be so glad? How can they have forgotten?"

But nobody heard or heeded Nanny--she was only the little orphan
"help" girl at Ingleside. They were all very good to her, and they
were all