“So John’s not coming home for Christmas either, eh?” he said at last.  “Well, now, that is too bad!  Now, now, now, mother,” as Aunt Ellen surreptitiously wiped her glasses, “we should feel proud to have such busy children.  There’s Ellen and Margaret and Anne with a horde of youngsters to make a Christmas for, and John—­bless your heart, Ellen, there’s a busy man!  A broker now is one of the very busiest of men!  And what with John’s kiddies and his beautiful society wife and that grand Christmas eve ball he mentions—­why—­” the Doctor cleared his throat,—­“why, dear me, it’s not to be wondered at, say I!  And Philip and Howard—­busy as—­as—­as architects and lawyers usually are at Christmas,” he finished lamely.  “As for Ralph—­” the Doctor looked away—­“well, Ralph hasn’t spent a Christmas home since college days.”

“It will be the first Christmas we ever spent without some of them home,” ventured Aunt Ellen, biting her lip courageously, whereupon the old Doctor patted her shoulder gently with a cheery word of advice.

Now, there was something in the touch of the old Doctor’s broad and gentle hand that always soothed, wherefore Aunt Ellen presently wiped her troublesome glasses again and bravely tried to smile, and the Doctor making a vast and altogether cheerful to-do about turning the blazing log, began a brisk description of his day.  It had ended, professionally, at a lonely little house in the heart of the forest, which Jarvis Hildreth, dying but a scant year since, had bequeathed to his orphaned children, Madge and Roger.

“And, Ellen,” finished the Doctor, soberly, “there he sits by the window, day by day, poor lame little lad!—­staring away so wistfully at the forest, and Madge, bless her brave young heart!—­she bastes and stitches and sews away, all the while weaving him wonderful yarns about the pines and cedars to amuse him—­all out of her pretty head, mind you!  A lame brother and a passion for books—­” said the Doctor, shaking his head, “a poor inheritance for the lass.  They worry me a lot, Ellen, for Madge looks thin and tired, and to-day—­” the Doctor cleared his throat, “I think she had been crying.”

“Crying!” exclaimed Aunt Ellen, her kindly brown eyes warm with sympathy.  “Dear, dear!—­And Christmas only three days off!  Why, John, dear, we must have them over here for Christmas.  To be sure!  And we’ll have a tree for little Roger and a Christmas masquerade and such a wonderful Christmas altogether as he’s never known before!” And Aunt Ellen, with the all-embracing motherhood of her gentle heart aroused, fell to planning a Christmas for Madge and Roger Hildreth that would have gladdened the heart of the Christmas saint himself.

Face aglow, the old Doctor bent and patted his wife’s wrinkled hand.

“Why, Ellen,” he confessed, warmly, “it’s the thing I most desired!  Dear me, it’s a very strange thing indeed, my dear, how often we seem to agree.  I’ll hitch old Billy to the sleigh and go straight after them now while Annie’s getting supper!” And at that instant one glance at Aunt Ellen Leslie’s fine old face, framed in the winter firelight which grew brighter as the checkerboard window beside her slowly purpled, would have revealed to the veriest tyro why the Doctor’s patients liked best to call her “Aunt” Ellen.