The children had been very gay, full of laughter and sweet innocent prattle, but a sudden hush fell upon them when seated about the table in the bright, cheerful breakfast parlor; little hands were meekly folded and each young head bent reverently over the plate, while in a few simple words which all could understand, their father gave God thanks for their food and asked his blessing upon it.

The Ion children were never rude even in their play, and their table manners were almost perfect; made the constant companions of cultivated, refined parents—­whose politeness springing from genuine unselfishness, was never laid aside, but shown on all occasions and to rich and poor, old and young alike—­and governed with a wise mixture of indulgence and restraint, mildness and firmness, they imitated the copies set before them and were seldom other than gentle and amiable in their deportment, not only toward their superiors, but to equals and inferiors also.

They were never told that “children should be seen and not heard,” but when no guests were present, were allowed to talk in moderation; a gentle word or look of reproof from papa or mamma being quite sufficient to check any tendency to boisterousness or undue loquacity.

“I think we should celebrate this anniversary, Elsie,” remarked Mr. Travilla, stirring his coffee and gazing with fond admiration into the sweet face at the opposite end of the table.

“Yes, sir, though we are rather late in thinking of it,” she answered smilingly, the rose deepening slightly on her cheek as delicately rounded and tinted as it had been ten years ago.

Little Elsie looked up inquiringly.  “What is it, papa?  I do not remember.”

“Do you not?  Ten years ago to-day there was a grand wedding at the Oaks, and your mamma and I were there.”

“I too?” asked Eddie.

“Yes, course, Eddie,” spoke up five year old Violet, “grandpa would ’vite you and all of us; and I b’lieve I ’member a little about it.”

“Me too,” piped the baby voice of Harold, “me sat on papa’s knee.”

There was a general laugh, the two little prattlers joining in right merrily.

“I really don’t remember that part of it, Harold,” said papa, while wee Elsie—­as she was often called by way of distinguishing her from mamma, for whom she was named—­shook her curly head at him with a merry “Oh, you dear little rogue, you don’t know what you are talking about;” and mamma remarked, “Vi has perhaps a slight recollection of May Allison’s wedding.”

“But this one at the Oaks must have been before I was born,” said Elsie, “because you said it was ten years ago, and I’m only nine.  O, mamma, was it your wedding?”

“Yes, daughter.  Shall we invite our friends for this evening, Edward?”

“Yes, wife; suppose we make it a family party, inviting only relatives, connections and very intimate friends.”