on grandma's knee, its small virtues,
vices, ailments, and accomplishments rehearsed, its beauties examined,
its strength tested, and the verdict of the family oracle pronounced
upon it as it was cradled, kissed, and blessed on the kind old heart
which had room for every care and joy of those who called her mother. It
was a sight the girl never forgot, because just then she was ready to
receive it. Her best lessons did not come from books, and she learned
one then as she saw the fairest success of a woman's life while watching
this happy grandmother with fresh faces framing her withered one,
daughterly voices chorusing good wishes, and the harvest of half a
century of wedded life beautifully garnered in her arms.

The fragrance of coffee and recollections of Cynthia's joyful
aberrations at such periods caused a breaking up of the maternal
conclave. The babies were borne away to simmer between blankets until
called for. The women unpacked baskets, brooded over teapots, and kept
up an harmonious clack as the table was spread with pyramids of cake,
regiments of pies, quagmires of jelly, snow-banks of bread, and gold
mines of butter; every possible article of food, from baked beans to
wedding cake, finding a place on that sacrificial altar.

Fearing to be in the way, Sylvia departed to the barn, where she found
her party in a chaotic Babel; for the offshoots had been as fruitful as
the parent tree, and some four dozen young immortals were in full riot.
The bashful roosting with the hens on remote lofts and beams; the bold
flirting or playing in the full light of day; the boys whooping, the
girls screaming, all effervescing as if their spirits had reached the
explosive point and must find vent in noise. Mark was in his element,
introducing all manner of new games, the liveliest of the old and
keeping the revel at its height; for rosy, bright-eyed girls were
plenty, and the ancient uniform universally approved. Warwick had a
flock of lads about him absorbed in the marvels he was producing with
knife, stick, and string; and Moor a rival flock of little lasses
breathless with interest in the tales he told. One on each knee, two at
each side, four in a row on the hay at his feet, and the boldest of all
with an arm about his neck and a curly head upon his shoulder, for Uncle
Abel's clothes seemed to invest the wearer with a passport to their
confidence at once. Sylvia joined this group and partook of a quiet
entertainment with a