There was a world of grateful good-will in the dark hazel eyes which Amy
lifted to the motherly face bending over her.

"And now come," pursued Mrs. Leonard; "mother Clifford, the boys, and the
children are all eager to see you. You won't find much ice to break, and
before the evening is over you will feel that you belong to us and we to
you. Don't be afraid."

"I am not afraid any more. I was, though, on my way here. Everything looked
so cold and dismal from the car windows, and the gentleman in whose care I
was had little to say, though kind and attentive enough. I was left to my
own thoughts, and gave way to a foolish depression; but when your husband
picked me up in his strong arms, and reassured me as if I were a little
girl, my feeling of desolation began to pass away. Your greeting and dear
old Mr. Clifford's have banished it altogether. I felt as if my own father
were blessing me in the friend who is now my guardian, and of whom I have
heard so often; and, after my long winter journey among strangers, you've
no idea what a refuge this warm room has already become. Oh, I know I shall
be happy. I only wish that dear papa knew how well he has provided for me."

"He knows, my dear. But come, or that incorrigible Burt will be bursting
upon us in his impatience, and the little mother must not be kept
waiting, either. You will soon learn to love her dearly. Weak and gentle
as she is, she rules us all."

"Mother's room" was, in truth, the favorite haunt of the house, and only
her need of quiet kept it from being full much of the time. There was
nothing bleak or repelling in the age it sheltered, and children and
grandchildren gathered about the old people almost as instinctively as
around their genial open fire. This momentous Christmas-eve found them