er, and laid for six, for her mother, Aunt Hannah and
Aunt Betsy are visiting her this rainy afternoon, while Morris, on his
return from North Silverton, where he has gone to see a patient, is to
call for Uncle Ephraim, who, in clean linen, checked gingham neck
handkerchief and the swallow-tailed coat which has served him for so
many years, sits waiting at home, with one kitten in his lap and
another on his shoulder.

Linwood is a nice place to visit, and the old ladies enjoy it vastly,
especially Aunt Betsy, who never tires of telling what they have "over
to Katy's," and whose capeless shaker hangs often on the hall stand,
just as it hangs now, while she, good soul, sits in the pleasant parlor,
near the blazing fire, and darns the socks for Morris, taking as much
pains as if it were a network of fine lace she was weaving, instead of a
shocking rent in some luckless heel or toe. Upstairs there is a pleasant
room which Katy calls Aunt Betsy's, and in it is the feather bed on
which Wilford Cameron once slept, a part of Katy's "setting out," which
never found its way to Madison Square. Morris himself did not think much
of feathers, but he made no objection when Aunt Betsy insisted on
sending over the bed kept for so many years, and only smiled a droll
kind of smile when he one morning met it coming up the walk in the
wheelbarrow which Uncle Ephraim trundled.

Morris and his young wife were very happy together, and Katy found the
hours of his absence very long, especially when she was left alone. Even
to-day, with her aunts and mother, the time drags heavily, and she looks
more than once from the bay window, until at last Brownie's head is seen
over the hill, and a few moments after Morris' arm is around her
shoulders, and her lips are upturned for the kiss he gives as he leads
her into the house out of the chill, damp air, chiding her gently for
exposing herself to the rain, and placing in her hand three letters,
which she does not open until the cozy tea is over and her family
friends have gone. Then, while her husband looks over his evening paper,
she breaks the seals, one by one, reading first the letter from "Mrs.
Bob Reynolds," who has returned from the West, and who is in the full
glory of her bridal calls.

"I was never so happy in my life as I am now," she wrote. "Indeed, I did
not know that a married woman could be so happy; but then every woman
has not a Bob for her husband, which makes a vast difference. You o