Linwood is a nice place to visit, and the old ladies enjoy it vastly, especially Aunt Betsy, who never tires of telling what they have “over to Katy’s,” and whose capeless shaker hangs often on the hall stand, just as it hangs now, while she, good soul, sits in the pleasant parlor, near the blazing fire, and darns the socks for Morris, taking as much pains as if it were a network of fine lace she was weaving, instead of a shocking rent in some luckless heel or toe.  Upstairs there is a pleasant room which Katy calls Aunt Betsy’s, and in it is the feather bed on which Wilford Cameron once slept, a part of Katy’s “setting out,” which never found its way to Madison Square.  Morris himself did not think much of feathers, but he made no objection when Aunt Betsy insisted on sending over the bed kept for so many years, and only smiled a droll kind of smile when he one morning met it coming up the walk in the wheelbarrow which Uncle Ephraim trundled.

Morris and his young wife were very happy together, and Katy found the hours of his absence very long, especially when she was left alone.  Even to-day, with her aunts and mother, the time drags heavily, and she looks more than once from the bay window, until at last Brownie’s head is seen over the hill, and a few moments after Morris’ arm is around her shoulders, and her lips are upturned for the kiss he gives as he leads her into the house out of the chill, damp air, chiding her gently for exposing herself to the rain, and placing in her hand three letters, which she does not open until the cozy tea is over and her family friends have gone.  Then, while her husband looks over his evening paper, she breaks the seals, one by one, reading first the letter from “Mrs. Bob Reynolds,” who has returned from the West, and who is in the full glory of her bridal calls.

“I was never so happy in my life as I am now,” she wrote.  “Indeed, I did not know that a married woman could be so happy; but then every woman has not a Bob for her husband, which makes a vast difference.  You ought to see Juno.  I know she envies me, though she affects the utmost contempt for matrimony, and reminds me forcibly of the fox and the grapes.  You see, Arthur Grey is a failure, so far as Juno is concerned, he having withdrawn from the field and laid himself, with his forty-five years, at the feet of Sybil Grandon, who will be Mrs. Grey, and a bride at Saratoga the coming summer.  Juno, I believe, intends going, too, as the bridesmaid of the party; but every year her chances lessen, and I have very little hope that father will ever call other than Bob his son, always excepting Morris, of course, whom he really has adopted in place of Wilford.  You don’t know, Katy, how much father thinks of you, blessing the day which brought you to us, and saying that if he is ever saved, he shall in a great measure owe it to your sweet influence and consistent life after the great trouble came upon you.”