The cordial greetings were over. The cloaks and furs were laid aside, and Alice sat down in the chimney-corner to observe the new-comer, in whose face the full radiance of the bright fire shone, while she conversed with Aunt Debby about the journey and the weather. “She is not pretty,” thought she. “Very unlike mother--taller and statelier, with black eyes and hair--still, her features are noble, and she looks good.” She came to this satisfactory conclusion just as her father suddenly exclaimed-- “Where did you say Clara was, Alice? Has she not returned from Belford?” “Yes, sir; she is staying with Ellen Morgan to-night.” “Is Ellen Morgan sick?” How Alice wished she could say yes, or any thing else than the plain, reluctant no--but out it must come. An expression of pain and displeasure came over the doctor’s countenance, and he glanced quickly at his wife. But she seemed to have no other thought than of the plants over which she was bending. “What sweet flowers have come to you, in the midst of the snow, Alice!” she exclaimed, as she lifted a spray of monthly rose, weighed down with its blossoms. Alice’s eyes glistened with pleasure as she saw that her darlings had found a friend. “They were mother’s,” she began, then stopped suddenly. “You must love them very dearly,” said Mrs. Gregory, with feeling. “But where is the little Eddie? Shall I not see him?” “Oh! he begged to sit up and wait, but he fell asleep, and Aunt Debby put him to bed. Would you like to go up and look at him? He is so pretty in his sleep!” “Indeed he _is_ pretty in his sleep,” thought the step-mother, as she bent over the beautiful child in his rosy dreams. She laid back his soft, bright curls, and lightly kissed his pure cheek, gazing long and tenderly upon him. Tears shone in her eyes as she, turning toward Alice, said softly, “Can we be happy together, Alice dear?” “I am sure we shall,” answered the warm-hearted girl impulsively. “Indeed, I will try to make you happy.” CHAPTER II. Late the next morning, Mrs. Gregory was sitting in the parlor with little Eddie at her side, where he had been enchained for five long minutes by the charms of a fairy tale. But as some one glided by the door he bounded away, crying, “There’s sister Clara! Clara, come and see my new mamma!” Presently, however, he came back with a dolorous countenance, complaining, “She says I have no new mamma, and she does not want to see her either. But I _have_,” he continued emphatically, laying hold on one of her fingers with each of his round, white fists, “and you will stay always, and tell me stories, wont you? Was that all about Fenella?” “We will have the rest another time, for there is the dinner-bell, and here comes your father.” The joyous child ran to his father’s arms, and then assuming a stride of ineffable dignity led the way to the dining-room. “Has not Clara yet returned?” asked the doctor, in a tone of some severity.