that the grasslands to the south were thickly blanketed in white; that
beyond in the evergreen forest the stately pines and cedars were
marvelously draped and coiffed in snow. For the old Doctor loved these
things of Nature as he loved the peace and quiet of his home.

So, as he turned in at the driveway and briskly resigned the care of
Polly to old Asher, his seamed and wrinkled helper, the Doctor's eyes
were roving now to a corner, snug beneath a tattered rug of snow, where
by summer Aunt Ellen's petunias and phlox and larkspur grew--and now to
the rose-bushes ridged in down, and at last to his favorite winter nook,
a thicket of black alders freighted with a wealth of berries. How
crimson they were amid the white quiet of the garden! And the brightly
colored fruit of the barberry flamed forth from a snowy bush like the
cheerful elf-lamps of a wood-gnome.

There was equal cheer and color in the old-fashioned sitting-room to
which the Doctor presently made his way, for a wood fire roared with a
winter gleam and crackle in the fireplace and Aunt Ellen Leslie rocked
slowly back and forth by the window with a letter in her hand.

"Another letter!" exclaimed the Doctor, warming his hands before the
blazing log. "God bless my soul, Ellen, we're becoming a nuisance to
Uncle Sam!" But for all the brisk cheeriness of his voice he was
furtively aware that Aunt Ellen's brown eyes were a little tearful, and
presently crossing the room to her side, he gently drew the crumpled
letter from her hand and read it.

"So John's not coming home for Christmas either, eh?" he said at last.
"Well, now, that _is_ too bad! Now, now, _now_, mother," as Aunt Ellen
surreptitiously wiped her glasses, "we should feel proud to have such