Billy came down-stairs on the thirteenth of
December to find everywhere the peculiar flatness
that always follows a day which for weeks has
been the focus of one's aims and thoughts and
labor.

``It's just as if everything had stopped at Marie's
wedding, and there wasn't anything more to do,''
she complained to Aunt Hannah at the breakfast
table. ``Everything seems so--queer!''

``It won't--long, dear,'' smiled Aunt Hannah,
tranquilly, as she buttered her roll, ``specially
after Bertram comes back. How long does he
stay in New York?''

``Only three days; but I'm just sure it's going
to seem three weeks, now,'' sighed Billy. ``But
he simply had to go--else he wouldn't have
gone.''

``I've no doubt of it,'' observed Aunt Hannah.
And at the meaning emphasis of her words,
Billy laughed a little. After a minute she said
aggrievedly:

``I had supposed that I could at least have a sort
of `after the ball' celebration this morning picking
up and straightening things around. But John
and Rosa have done it all. There isn't so much