How
crimson they were amid the white quiet of the garden! And the brightly
colored fruit of the barberry flamed forth from a snowy bush like the
cheerful elf-lamps of a wood-gnome.
There was equal cheer and color in the old-fashioned sitting-room to
which the Doctor presently made his way, for a wood fire roared with a
winter gleam and crackle in the fireplace and Aunt Ellen Leslie rocked
slowly back and forth by the window with a letter in her hand.
"Another letter!" exclaimed the Doctor, warming his hands before the
blazing log. "God bless my soul, Ellen, we're becoming a nuisance to
Uncle Sam!" But for all the brisk cheeriness of his voice he was
furtively aware that Aunt Ellen's brown eyes were a little tearful, and
presently crossing the room to her side, he gently drew the crumpled
letter from her hand and read it.
"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.
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