"Phyllis, listen to this," and Sarah unfolded the General's telegram from Hazelnook, and read:

"That's a definite telegram!" Sarah said, indignantly. "'Expect the family!' What family? How do I know how many there are in a family I don't know anything about? The 'two more' are of no consequence, but there may be three, two, ten, six or one in that 'family.' The General certainly needs a keeper if any man ever did."

"He knows you are equal to entertaining fifty at a few hours' notice, Miss Sarah," Phyllis said, soothingly.

"I don't know about that!" Sarah replied, somewhat mollified by Phyllis' appreciative remark. "But if nobody-knows-how-many-and-two-more are to be dropped down upon me at a moment's notice, I certainly do not intend to disgrace myself. Phyllis, we shall have to work!"

"Yes'm," said Phyllis, dropping easily into the old monosyllable.

As may be imagined, the old mansion was in perfect order the next morning. Flowers were everywhere, and the August sunshine flooded the stately rooms, for every blind and shutter was wide open. In the great oak dining-room the table was already spread with crystal and silver and china and damask, the united rich possessions of many generations of Haines' housemothers. Fruit and flowers were not lacking, and these had been arranged by Phyllis' deft and willing fingers. In the kitchen the banquet—a bountiful one, you may be sure, for who could say how many hungry mouths that mysterious "family" might contain?—was well under way. And Sarah—oh, Sarah was everywhere!—planning, ordering, executing, and, of course, scolding in her whimsical way, but in splendid humor, withal, for she gloried in an occasion where there was encouragement to put forth her best abilities.

Sarah was on the porch when the guests came, a line of maids, with Phyllis at their head, behind her, and her face was a study when she saw one carriage after another drive up, and a stream of people pour out as water flows from an inverted pitcher. All the General's carriages, and a roomy buckboard, containing as many boys and girls as could crowd in, made an impressive show. There were Mr. and Mrs. Walcott, Miss Celia and the minister, the General and May, Miss Maud Berkeley and Uncle George, nurse and baby, Ned and Jane, and Gay, Ethel, Julia, Ned Payne, Lyman, Robert, Will, Fred, Herb, and even Philip and Rob Lawrence, who had been picked up in the village at May's request.

"Mercy me!" thought Sarah. "If all but 'two' belong in her family no wonder Mrs. Walcott has nervous prostration! 'She,'" with a glance at Miss Celia, "is one of the 'two.' She is prettier than her picture and the image of his mother. Those two young people are lovers. How alike those twins are! No wonder they fooled everybody. Our child is a little sweeter than the boy. Who under the sun is that lank man with her? Another admirer, I should say. Well, such a figure as that can have no show beside the General, who is a fine-looking man, barring his outlandish clothes. Not much, Mr. Long-Legs! I'm glad I had that second lot of ice-cream made, with all those children there won't be a bit too much!"

During this soliloquy Sarah was welcoming everybody; directing the maids as to the disposal of the guests and looking so amiable the while that the General was in a tremor of delight. He had not been without misgivings as to her appreciation of this large house party, for, as we know, he had neglected to inform her of his invitation to the Hazelnook boys and girls. When the last guest was disposed of, the General followed Sarah into the library, and looked expectantly at her.

"I gave her your mother's room," said Sarah, abruptly.

There was no need to ask whom Sarah meant; the General knew instinctively that it was Miss Celia.

"How did you know?" he said.

"How did I know where to put her?" said perverse Sarah, for she knew quite well what he meant. "I ought to know where to put guests in this house if anybody does."

"How did you know that nothing could be more gratifying to me than to have Miss Celia Linn in mother's room?" the General asked, earnestly.

"To tell the truth I didn't do it to gratify you; I thought she belonged there; she's the image of your mother."

The General actually grasped Sarah's hands. "Have I your consent?" said he; "I mean do you approve?"

"Yes,—have you hers?" replied Sarah, with a droll smile.

"I dare not hope, but I shall try my fate," the General answered, soberly.

"I am glad if you begin to realize your duty," said this inconsistent woman. "You ought to have married years ago; not waited till your wife will have to share you with old age and rheumatism."

"It was never time until now," the General declared, with youthful ardor. "Could any woman save Miss Celia Linn fitly reign here?—I ask you that, Sarah."

"You'd better ask her about reigning, not me," said Sarah, laughingly, and with this parting shot she left the room.

In the hall she encountered the twins deep in conversation.

"Miss Sarah, Gay says that you won't like him as well as you do me!" cried May.

"If he's as good as you are I shall like him," Sarah replied.

"I can't be half as good as she's been lately," Gay said. "I would have thumped Philip into next week if he had tried that game on me! But May won't be as good now I am here. We need to be together to show just what we are."

"Don't you think Gay might forgive Philip?" May asked! "He says he won't."

"I don't mind what people do to me; but to you, that's another thing," Gay said, stoutly.

"I like to have you speak so about me!" May said, with a gratified smile. "But suppose the boys and Ethel and Julia wouldn't have forgiven you?"

"I'm sick of so much forgiving!" cried Gay. "It's nothing but forgive or be forgiven all the time."

"To forgive and be forgiven—that is life, my son," said a soft voice behind them. "Learn to forgive as freely as you would be forgiven and you will need no other lesson."

It was the gentle mother who spoke, pale and fragile still, but happy to have her children around her once more.

"Your little girl knows what it is to forgive," said Sarah, with a fond glance at May.

"And I know what it is to be forgiven!" said irrepressible Gay. "That evens things up. May and I are one, and sometimes she's the one and sometimes I'm the one, but between us we've learned mother's lesson of life."

"You see Miss Maud and Uncle George under the trees in the garden, don't you?" Gay broke out abruptly, a moment later. "They've been there since we came. They don't know that they are dusty and need dusting just as much as any of us, because they are lovers and don't know things like other people!"

"The garden looks cool and shady enough to tempt any one into it," remarked the mistress, with a longing glance through the open door.

Then Gay offered his arm to his mother and they went into the garden whither everybody drifted after awhile—even nurse, who paced up and down the walks, not looking to the right or left, the peer of the sixth earl of Roslyn gurgling in her arms. Miss Celia was the last guest to appear, and she came leaning on the General's arm. They had been detained by a little dialogue which took place in the library. "Hurrah!" cried Gay on their approach. "We've got two more of Uncle George's and Miss Maud's kind in our ark now!"

All eyes were immediately turned upon the pair, and the General was moved to say something upon this joyous occasion.

"I can't understand it——" he began.

"I can!" shouted audacious Gay. "Auntie's awfully charitable—Aunt Beulah says she never knew of her refusing anything to a beggar in all her life!"

A shout of laughter, in which everybody but the minister joined, greeted this remark, and the General decided to abandon speech-making.

"You'll have to take care, auntie, or he'll make you drill!" said May, who was on the other side of the General, and held his hand.

"If he should persist in making you a soldier, Miss Celia, let me suggest that you follow your grand-niece's example—take out the cartridge and fill the cartridge chamber with cotton," said Mr. Walcott, gravely.

"Oh, father," said May, "I didn't think you would tell!"

"If Uncle Harold values his life he will not encourage Miss Linn in the use of fire-arms—a woman's shot 'may turn out a song or it may turn out a sermon'; that is, it may hit the bull's eye or it may hit somebody behind her," said Uncle George.

"Miss Maud hit pretty near the bull's eye when you were the target, and she's a woman," cried May.

"May!" said the mother in a tone of gentle remonstrance.

"Miss Maud doesn't mind, mother, she isn't even blushing," said Gay.

Miss Berkeley certainly was blushing at these unexpected sallies, and so rosily that Sarah, thinking to divert the attention of the younger members of the company from her, demanded, briskly,—

"What's the matter with you boys and girls; why don't you play some game? You need a little exercise before lunch. Come, scamper!"

Miss Berkeley, Mr. Walcott and Uncle George joined the children and the fun began. They played tag, run across, and other lively games until they were tired. While they rested Sarah brought forth a minstrel—James, who handled a violin as skilfully as he handled the General's horses.

The banquet was the crowning glory of the day. It began at two; it ended at twilight. Not that they were at table all that time; there were other interesting exercises beside that of feasting on the delicacies housewife Sarah had provided. When the children ceased to demand ices, the General rose and said, with a dignified smile,—

"A toast!"

"Toast after this!" May exclaimed, with a droll smile.

"You don't mean dry toast, do you, Uncle Harold?" demanded Gay.

Then everybody laughed—it is astonishing how little it takes to excite the risibilities of light-hearted people, young or old!

"Uncle Harold was right," said Gay, "it is the proper thing to toast everybody."

"Brown on both sides!" interrupted May.

"And he must be the toaster," concluded Gay.

"Uncle Harold, you are invited to be the 'toaster' upon this delightful occasion," said Mr. Walcott. "You will find the duties attendant upon the position similar to those of the ordinary toastmaster, not of the cook!" The General held his glass of lemonade high as he said,—

"To Miss Celia Linn! The——"

"Uncle Harold thinks it's cream toast!" interrupted saucy Gay.

The General did not finish the toast and Miss Celia's health was drunk amid merry laughter.

"To mother!" cried Gay, leaving his place at table to run to his mother's side to kiss her before drinking her health.

This put an end to formality; they toasted everybody, Phyllis among others, for all knew her loyalty and affection in May's hours of trial.

"Who would have thought that anybody like me would have been toasted by ladies and gentlemen!" said Phyllis, when her health was proposed.

"We never know what may happen to us. We may all be roasted next!" said May, quaintly.

"I don't believe I could hold another drop of lemonade, not even if the president of the United States came in and begged to be toasted!" Gay said, despairingly.

"Wouldn't speeches be easier to swallow than toasts?" asked May, with a sigh that matched Gay's in depth and length.

"What, just plain, dry speeches, without anything to make them slip down easily?" asked Gay.

"Yes," May answered.

"Speech! speech!" cried Mr. Walcott, who was enjoying the fun as hugely as Lyman or Robert or any of the boys there—and the Hazelnook boys were enjoying themselves, albeit they had less to say than the lively twins.

"Let Lyman make the first speech. He's scarcely spoken a word," said Gay.

But Lyman declined the honor, saying he was born to listen not to talk.

"Why do you think so?" Gay demanded.

"Because I've one mouth and two ears," Lyman responded promptly.

"And the majority rules, doesn't it, Lyman?" said May, quickly.

"Say something yourself, Gay," Will urged.

"Yes, do," said the young people, who thought this was their day and that the General's newly-found happiness and the mother's improved health were merely side issues.

"Yes, Gay; rise and shine," laughed May. "I never knew before just what that meant. It means to get up after a time like this and say something bright, doesn't it, father?"

"Yes, that's the philosophy of after-dinner remarks in a nutshell," Mr. Walcott replied.

"It is easy to rise!" said Gay, suiting the action to the word, "but it's not so easy to shine. It seems to me that after remarks ought to come before! A fellow would feel more like it, wouldn't he, May? (Nod from May.) You can't even get a dog to 'speak for it' worth a cent when he's had all the bones he wants. I mean that you're really fuller when you're empty—oh, dear! what I want to say I can't say; and what I say I don't want to say. But I hope everybody has had a rattling good time—(We have! we have! from the boys in chorus.) So have I," continued the speaker, "and I hope we shall soon repeat this—this—some kind of an occasion—I can't think of the word—bang-up time will do. We couldn't have had it anywhere else in such—such immense shape, and—somebody else must put a P. S. on and thank Uncle Harold and Miss Sarah. I'm tired of shining."

And Gay sat down amid shouts of laughter.

Then somebody proposed singing Auld Lang Syne. Not that anybody specially cared to sing it, but because Auld Lang Syne ends a good time most appropriately, as the benediction closes service.

It was time for candles when they ceased singing—and there is not much more to tell. All the happy, tired children soon were stowed away for the night—no one but Sarah could have arranged such a mosaic of small cots.

Gay and May were not far apart, but they were too sleepy to congratulate themselves upon the pleasant termination of their "lark." They wandered awhile on the borders of dreamland, then the great curtain of sleep fell upon them and upon all the house party. We will leave them to their peaceful repose, nor wait to greet them when the sun shall ring up the curtain on another day.