“It will be, child,” returned Betsy, “with you for a treat.” She kissed her guest. “You look like Aurora,” she added, in irrepressible admiration of the girl’s soft coloring in the white couch. “I know, ’cause I saw her picture in Europe till I knew her as well as anybody in the family album. To think you might have waked up in the Nixon house this mornin’! You could ’a’ run around in automobiles, and danced, and had a real girl’s good time; and here you are, mewed up with two homespun folks like us, in a snow-bank, with the ocean for a front yard, black enough to bite you! I felt guilty when I waked up. Honestly, I did.” “Well, stop it, Betsy. This is the one place in the world I want to be these holidays. Do you believe me?” Betsy shook her head. “It seems too good to be true; but your eyes do look as if you meant it. Here’s a big can o’ hot water, dear, and when you come down, I’ll give you some buckwheat cakes as good as you ever tasted.” Betsy had maligned the landscape. Rosalie looked out on spotless snow, but all the trees visible along the village street were cased in ice. Every twig sparkled as the sun gained dominion over the sullen sea, and shone on the dazzling, mammoth wedding-cake. The week passed quickly and happily. Mrs. Pogram gave a dinner for the Salters and their guest, after Loomis and his _fiancée_ had returned to Portland. Captain Salter made Rosalie recite to him the verses in praise of happiness, all the time he was marching to the function. It was a season of content. Betsy could not doubt it as she looked at the deepening roses in the girl’s cheeks, and the way her eyes sparkled as she came into the house, stamping the snow from her boots, on the return from some errand with Hiram. Mr. Beebe, learning of her presence, took the biggest sleigh from the inn stable and gave them a long exhilarating ride into the country, and an oyster supper when they returned. On the last evening of the year Rosalie sat before the open fire with Betsy. Captain Salter had gone out on some errand in the village, and Rosalie, on her favorite little stool, leaned her head against Betsy’s knee and watched the leaping flames. How remote, on an evening like this, seemed the great world from this little cottage-by-the-sea! “One has so much time here, to think, Betsy,” said the girl. The other gave her one-sided smile. “Well, yes,—holidays, we do,” she rejoined. “You are always busy,” admitted Rosalie. “How happy you and the captain are!” “We think we couldn’t be happier,” returned Betsy. “It’s been a wonderful year for both you and me, Rosalie.” “Yes, it has,” returned the girl dreamily. “A year ago to-night—No! I must forget all that.” Betsy patted her shoulder. “Yesterday is dead,” she said quietly. Rosalie’s eyes lifted slowly to the other’s face. “Not all the yesterdays,” she said, and looked back at the fire.