tantalized by the good things they couldn't eat, they crept away to the
fire and their picture-books for a quiet hour, winding up the day with
all the plays that country and city children alike delight in.

Then came recollections of later days, when John was a young man, and
Lizzy still a little girl,--when long talks banished turkeys and apples
and sliding,--when new books or sleigh-rides crowded out the old
games,--when the two days of John's yearly visit were half-spent in the
leafless, sunny woods, gathering mosses and acorn-cups, delicate fern
leaves, and clusters of fire-moss, and red winter-green berries, for the
pretty frames and baskets Lizzy's skilful fingers fabricated,--when he
shook hands at coming and going, instead of kissing her;--but it seemed
just the same, somehow. Dear me! those days were all gone! John didn't
care about her any more! he was in love with a beautiful Boston lady.
Why should he care about a homely little country cousin? He would go to
live in Boston in a great big house, and he'd be a great man, and people
would talk about him, and she should see his name in the papers, but he
never would come to Coventry any more! And he'd acted as if he did love
her, too!--that was men's way,--heartless things! If John had a good
time, what did he care if Lizzy did grow into a gray-haired, puckered-up
old maid, like Miss Case, with nobody to love her, or take care of her,
or ask about her, or--or--kiss her?--The climax was too much for Lizzy;
great big tears ran down on the arm of the stuffed chair, and she
would have sobbed out loud, only Chloe opened the door, to put up the
tea-things, I suppose, and Lizzy wouldn't cry before her. But, for all
that, she didn't hear Chloe come to the fireplace; she only felt her sit
down in the big chair, and, simultaneously, a pair of strong arms lifted
Miss Lizzy on to John Boynton's knee, and held her there. It wasn't
Chloe.