Although it is June, the mornings are cool, and as we push open a French window and step in from the wide, uncovered piazza, we see an open fireplace, with a few embers smouldering away on the high brass and irons. There is an air of refinement and cosey, homelike comfort about the room that we would like to describe, but something of still greater interest attracts us. Sitting on a low chair near the fire is a young girl, whom we soon recognize as the little Ethel we loved so dearly. As we have seen her so many times, she is still hovering over a cradle, but this time the occupant is a living, breathing, cooing, jumping, heart-winning baby. At this moment the little one is sleeping. Ethel gazes lovingly at the fair countenance, the rosy lips moving in pleasant recollection of the sweets it has tasted, the long, curly lashes resting on the plump cheek, and acknowledges to herself that live babies are a great improvement on dolls. Now voices are heard in the hall. Just as a lady and gentleman enter, a carryall drives to the door. The gentleman has on his arm sundry wraps, an afghan, a tiny cap being daintily held on his outstretched fingers. There is a new expression on his features, and we can scarcely believe that this tall athlete, this noble-looking man, with a smile on his lips, which looks as though it belonged there, is the same gentleman whom we first knew as Harold Angus. But how shall I describe our Marion? The eyes are as bright, the dimples still in view, but the whole face is flooded with a new light. It is the mother love. She takes little Stella from the cradle, uttering those soothing sounds which even the youngest babies so well understand, and dresses her for the ride, Ethel, meanwhile, looking on in wondering admiration. They are going to the station to meet their dear friends, Dr. and Mrs. B-, from the Home for the Sick, and when they have driven around the town, intend to bring them home for a quiet Sunday. And this is our Ingleside.