When all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have occasion to wear in her workaday world—a white cashmere, her grandfather's favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt, for grandpa's favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight at the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited for him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had exchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he came into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and roses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to receive him, sweeping a low courtesy with "A merry Christmas to you, sir; happy and oft this day return to thee," he rubbed his old eyes in amazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two lookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen door, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was guilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage of a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He murmured "Beautiful!" but whether it referred to the charming room, the faultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell? He came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white grapes and bananas, which he presented with a "Merry Christmas" to Mr. Winthrop. "You have friends with you?" he said, glancing about him. "Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance to please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr. Thornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a seat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our Christmas a happy one." So sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest experienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world there was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most enjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious and delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never lacked either topics or thoughts for conversation. In the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr. Winthrop turned to Lily, saying, "My dear, take our friend out and show him that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another plant like it in this country." "Here is something finer than roses," Lily said, pausing at the entrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with blossoms. "They are wonderfully sweet," he said, bending over them, "but I have a great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy little souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and open their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not exclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by scattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them as freely as water or air."