“So much fruit they haf in the West, I must share with my dear friends in the East,” was his greeting. Or rather it was the greeting that he told me later he had planned to deliver, for he hadn’t got but two words into this prettily prepared speech when his betrothed, showing a dreadful want of propriety, I fear, uttered an unearthly shriek and flew at him with kisses, causing him to scatter the fruits and nuts clear over the floor, to the delight of Daisy and Demi, who promptly fell to foraging and nibbling like two young squirrels on this unexpected bounty.

It was a happy Christmas, Beth, for all that you were not there in person, for we all felt your dear spirit there among us, as we do each day and always will; death cannot break the bounds of love that tie us, and, though we can no longer see your tranquil face smiling at us from the little chair by the hearth, still, we know you smile always on us from the other home where you now are, and now, at last, we feel the shadow of your earthly loss begin to lift, and ourselves begin to be able to smile back at you.

With love from us all, dear, this merry Christmas Day,

Jo.

Lulu smiled, too, as she wrapped herself closer into the moth-eaten quilt that protected her from the worst of the attic’s chill, and, just for pleasure, began to read the letter again. It was the Saturday afternoon following Aunt Amy’s visit, and quite soon she, Emma, and Sophie would be meeting in the living room to trim the Christmas tree over tea and gingerbread; but Lulu had arrived at the house early, to give herself time to slip up to the attic and the letters. She liked the few letters that Jo had written to Beth’s memory after the worst grief of her bereavement had passed; she liked to know that Jo had found peace at last in her loss; she liked, too, that Jo had found love. And it most clearly had been a real love, and a passionate one, for all that its object was stout and middle-aged rather than young and handsome; Lulu, too, she thought now, would like to have someone in her life to fly at with kisses and send parcels scattering. It would not be Tom, for all of Emma’s hopes and hints; but someone—she thought, still smiling as the last pale yellow drop of winter sunshine trickled through the attic’s window and onto the more than hundred-year-old paper in her hand—would be nice.

“It’s been a funny sort of a year,” said Emma an hour later when the sisters were gathered around the tall tree in the bright living room. She looked dreamily out of the window at the blue-gray dusk that was falling in the garden outside, the warm glow of the lamps shining pools in its gloom. “I started it as a single woman living in London, and now I’m almost married and on my way to North Dakota.” A little wistfully, she touched a lopsided papier-mâché star that Lulu had made when she was nine. “I wonder where I’ll spend next Christmas.”