TWO years later, and again the Christmas chimes
were ringing from many a tower, and the words,
“Peace on earth, good-will to men,” were sung by
many a voice, while many a welcome greeting was given to
returning friends, and to none a warmer or more welcome
one than was extended to Jack and Maude, who came from
their home in Jersey to keep Christmas at Leighton, where
Edna presided as mistress, with no shadow on her bright
face, or sorrow in her heart. Hers had been a happy life
since the day Roy called her his wife; and no ripple, however
small, had broken the smooth surface of the matrimonial
sea on which she sailed so pleasantly. All in all to
each other, neither she nor Roy had cared to leave their
pleasant home; but had remained there all the time, with
the exception of an occasional trip to New York, and a
visit of a few days to Rocky Point and Allen's Hill.

“Oh, I am so happy that I sometimes tremble lest I
should wake some morning and find it all a dream,” Edna
said to Maude, as she led the way to the suite of rooms
which had been prepared for Mrs. Jack, with her nurse and

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babies, for Maude had reached that honor, and the cares of
maternity sat very gracefully upon her.

“Edna Browning” she had named the expected
stranger, and had held all sorts of consultations with Mrs.
Roy concerning the christening robes and the christening
dinner, and had talked quite confidently of what her
daughter would and would not do. How, then, was she
amazed and confounded when the result proved to be
twins, and boys at that! Two great, red-faced, sturdy boys,
at whom she looked askance, and from whom she shrunk at
first as from something appalling, and of which she was
ashamed.

Edna Browning was a Betsy Trotwood affair now, and
they named the babies John and Roy, but the father always
called them Jack and Gill. And they were spending their
first Christmas at Leighton; and Mr. and Mrs. Freeman
Burton were there also, the latter still in black for her darling
Georgie, whom she talked about a great deal, wishing
so much that she could be with them as she used to be.

“Not that I want you away, my dear,” she would add,
laying her hand on Edna's shoulder, or wish that things with
you and Roy were otherwise, only I miss poor Georgie so
much, but Maude is a great comfort to me.”

And this is true, for to some degree Maude has taken
Georgie's place in her aunt's affections. She spends a good
deal of time at Oakwood with her boys, to whom Mr. Burton
calls himself grandpa, while his wife is the grandma; and it
is said that in his private drawer there is a will giving all his
worldly possessions to his beloved niece, Mrs. John Heyford,
and her heirs forever; so Jack is doing well in a
worldly point of view, and is talking of building a handsome
country seat, where Maude can keep her ponies, and her
children, and be what she desires to be, a farmer's wife in
comfortable circumstances. Uncle Phil is also at Leighton

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keeping the Christmas holidays, and playing with the twins,
and rallying Edna on Maude's surprising success. But Aunt
Jerry is not there. “Got the rheumatism in her hip, and is
crosser than four bears,” Uncle Phil said, and then Edna
knew that he had been to Allen's Hill, and looked at him so
inquiringly, that he replied, “No use, no use,—and I may as
well tell you that I've made a prodigious fool of myself, and
been after that snap-dragon again. She looked so trim and
neat when you were married, that my heart kept thumpin'
under my jacket; and I was so lonesome with you and
Maude both gone for good, that I—yes—well—I—yes, yes—
asked her again, and said I was 'Piscopal now, and told
her I'd build a Gothic cottage, and we might take comfort
yet, for it was lonesome and awful cold winter nights, and
she called me an old fool, and told me to let her alone, and
I did, but kept thinkin', and hankerin', and rememberin'
how slim and straight she looked, and I've begun the Gothic
house, you know, and it will be finished in the spring, and—
and—yes, yes—the upshot is, I went out there two weeks
ago and found her on crutches, and tried her again with the
'Piscopal and the Gothic, but no go. She didn't dislike me,
she said, and she was lonesome at times, but she wouldn't
be a laughing-stock for nobody; and she gave me the mitten
the third time, and I've give it up for good.”

Edna tried to console him, and told him her aunt might
change her mind yet, but he did not think she would, and
said he could stand it if she didn't; and was the merriest of
them all at the dinner, where Maude and Edna appeared in
evening dress, looking as young and beautiful as in their
girlish days, while Roy and Jack seemed and were perfectly
happy and altogether satisfied in the choice they had
made.

And now, saying good-by to Leighton, we glance for a
moment at poor Aunt Jerry, who ate her dinner alone and

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let one single tear roll down her cheeks as she thought of
the party at Leighton, and of herself, so lonely and forlorn.
As the night deepened without, and the shadows crept into
every corner of the room, she tried, by caressing her tabby-cat,
and watching the fire-light flickering on the wall, to get
up a little enthusiasm for her surroundings, and believe that
she was happy and content. But it would not do; there
was a craving in her heart for other companionship than
that of cat and cow, and putting the former from her lap she
hobbled to the window and looking out into the night,
thought of the Gothic cottage, and the man who had offered
it to her acceptance, and called her Jerry as he did so.

“It might be better than living here alone, and it might be
worse,” she soliloquized. “There's nothing bad about him,
and I do believe, that as far as he knows, he is a good
churchman now, but he is short, and fat, and stumpy, and if
you'd let him, would be silly enough to keep your stomach
riled the most of the time. No, Tabby and I'll try it a spell
longer anyway, and then if he is fool enough to ask again,
I—don't—know—; it's about an even thing;” and the good
woman went back to her chair by the fire, and Tabby crept
again into her lap, and purred her content with things as
they were, and the kettle from which Aunt Jerry was to have
a cup of tea when the clock struck eight, sang upon the
hearth, and made, with the snapping of the wood, a pleasant,
cheery sound which lulled Aunt Jerry to sleep at last, and
there we will leave her, not knowing any better than the
reader, whether that Gothic cottage at Rocky Point will
ever have a mistress or not, though we have a suspicion that
it will!