"My dear father," she said, "we have chosen this evening as the one most
appropriate for your formal installation in our family circle and our
home. I say formal because you have really been one of ourselves for
years; you have shared our joys and our sorrows; we have had no secrets
from you; but from this time we want you to take your place in our home,
as you did long ago in our hearts. We have prepared this room for you,
to be your sanctum sanctorum, and have placed in it a few little
tokens of our love for you and gratitude to you, which we beg you to
accept as such."
She bent towards the fireplace. "The hearthstone is ever an emblem of
home. In lighting the fires upon this hearthstone, we dedicate it to
your use and christen this 'our father's room.'"
The flames burst upward as she finished speaking, sending a resinous
fragrance into the air and revealing a room fitted with such loving
thought and care that nothing which could add to his comfort had been
omitted. Near the centre of the room stood a desk of solid oak, a gift
from Mr. Underwood; beside it a reclining chair from Mrs. Dean, while on
the wall opposite, occupying nearly a third of that side of the room,
was a superb painting of the Hermitage,--standing out in the firelight
with wonderful realism, perfect in its bold outlines and sombre
coloring,--the united gift of his son and daughter, which Darrell had
ordered executed before his departure for Alaska.
With loving congratulations the rest of the group gathered about Mr.
Britton, who was nearly speechless with emotion. As Mr. Underwood wrung
his hand he exclaimed, with assumed gruffness,-"Jack, old partner, you thought you'd got a monopoly on that boy of
yours, but I've got in on the deal at last!"
"You haven't got any the best of me, Dave," Mr. Britton retorted,
smiling through his tears, "for I've got a share now in the sweetest
daughter on earth!"
"Yes, papa," Kate laughingly rejoined, "there are three of us Brittons
now; the Underwoods are in the minority."
Which, though a new view of the situation to that gentleman, seemed
eminently satisfactory.
Later, as Kate found Darrell at a window, looking thoughtfully out into
the moonlit night, she asked,-"Of what are you thinking, John?"
"Of what the years have done for us, Kathie; of how much better fitted
for each other we are now than when we first loved."
"Yes," she whispered, as their eyes met, "'God's own good time' was the
best."