ame, however.

If one had to be away from home on Christmas, there could surely be no
better place to spend that day than in the Merrill household. Cynthia
remembers still, when that blessed season comes around, how each member
of the family vied with the others to make her happy; how they showered
presents on her, and how they strove to include her in the laughter and
jokes at the big family dinner. Mr. Merrill's brother was there with his
wife, and Mrs. Merrill's aunt and her husband, and two broods of cousins.
It may be well to mention that the Merrill relations, like Sally Broke,
had overcome their dislike for Cynthia.

There were eatables from Coniston on that board. A turkey sent by Jethro
for which, Mr. Merrill declared, the table would have to be strengthened;
a saddle of venison--Lem Hallowell having shot a deer on the mountain two
Sundays before; and mince-meat made by Amanda Hatch herself. Other
presents had come to Cynthia from the hills: a gorgeous copy of Mr.
Longfellow's poems from Cousin Ephraim, and a gold locket from Uncle
Jethro. This locket was the precise counterpart (had she but known it) of
a silver one bought at Mr. Judson's shop many years before, though the
inscription "Cynthy, from Uncle Jethro," was within. Into the other side
exactly fitted that daguerreotype of her mother which her father had
given her when he died. The locket had a gold chain with a clasp, and
Cynthia wore it hidden beneath her gown-too intimate a possession to be
shown.

There was still another and very mysterious present, this being a huge
box of roses, addressed to Miss Cynthia Wetherell, which was delivered on
Christmas morning. If there had been a card, Susan Merrill would
certainly have found it. There was no card. There was much pretended
speculation on the part of the Merrill girls as to the sender, sly
reference to Cynthia's heightened color, and several attempts to pin on
her dress a bunch of the flowers, and Susan declared that one of them
would look stunning in her hair. They were put on the dining-room table
in the centre of the wreath of holly, and under the mistletoe which hung
from the chandelier. Whether Cynthia surreptitiously stole one has never
been discovered.

So Christmas came and went: not altogether unhappily, deferring for a day
at least the knotty problems of life. Although Cynthia accepted the
present of the roses with such magnificent unconcern, and would not make
so much as a guess as to w