In the intervals of the game, while Uncle Henry was pondering over his moves, the little girl looked down at her pets and listened absently to the keen autumnal wind that swept around the old house, shaking the shutters and rattling the windows.  A stick of wood in the stove burned in two and fell together with a soft, whispering sound.  The lamp cast a steady radiance on Uncle Henry bent seriously over the checker-board, on Molly’s blooming, round cheeks and bright hair, on Aunt Abigail’s rosy, cheerful, wrinkled old face, and on Cousin Ann’s quiet, clear, dark eyes ... .

That room was full to the brim of something beautiful, and Betsy knew what it was.  Its name was Happiness.

The end.