A few days before Christmas found the Winthrops established in their new home, happy, grateful souls as ever opened eyes on Christmas morning. The delightful old-fashioned house reminded one of a hen and chickens, so many small rooms joined on here and there clustering about it. Inside, it seemed to open in all directions, so that when you stood in the center you had a peep into every room. And each room, fitted up by Lily's artistic taste with articles that had long been heirlooms in the family, had an individuality of its own. The living room, warm and bright in rich colors, the dining room, with antique sideboard and a few old pieces of silver shining on it, the tiny green carpeted library, glimpses into one fair and white, the guest chamber, and another in rose tints, such as girls love, then the old-time room, which Mr. Winthrop declared was to be his the moment he saw it. "It carries me back sixty-free years to my mother's knee," he said. Mr. Thornton had come as soon as possible after the settlement of the new home and taken a delighted survey. He could scarcely have believed it to be the same, evidences of refined taste and deft fingers were everywhere. "The most charming effect without exception that I ever saw in any house," he told his happy host, who took almost a childish pleasure in displaying his new possession, carrying his visitor at last in triumph to his own room and seating him in the arm-chair, with "Now did you ever see anything to equal this, even to the candlesticks and snuffer tray, all complete? This room does me more good than anything that has come to me in years." And Mr. Thornton, looking into the old man's happy face, the firelight throwing a halo about his white hair; thanked God for money. His pleased eyes took in the fact, too, that the room remained unchanged in every particular, a tribute, he smilingly thought, to the taste of Mr. Hathaway. CHAPTER III. ON Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his afternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate this wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and autumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself with, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines festooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along the gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums bloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table in spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o'clock dinner—sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in, these days.