“Mother Birch,” said her son-in-law, with air affectionate hand on her shoulder, “not even you can charm us out of our own house to-night.  Do you know that we’re all alone—­that not even Fieldsy is over there?  Charlotte’s going to get dinner, and I’m to help her with the clearing up, and then we’re going to sit on our porch.  Of course we shall be constantly looking down the street for a messenger boy with a telegram announcing the coming of our next guest, but until he comes—­”

Everybody laughed at the expressive breath he drew.

“Go, you dear children,” said Mrs. Birch, and the rest joined in warmly.

“I’ll sit on our doorstone with a rifle, and pick off the visitors as they come up the street!” cried Just, as the two went off.

“Don’t shoot to kill!” Doctor Churchill called back, gaily.  Then the door closed on the pair.

When the happy little dinner was over, the dishes put away, and Charlotte had slipped on a cool frock in which to spend the warm summer evening, she went out to find her husband lying comfortably in the hammock behind the vines, his hands clasped under his head.  The twilight was just slipping into evening, and the breath of unseen roses was sweet upon the shadows.

Charlotte drew a chair close to her husband’s side and sat down.

“After all, Andy,” said she, as they fell to talking of the past year, “I wouldn’t have had it different.  One thing is certain—­out of our three guests we entertained at least one angel unawares.”

“Yes, and I like to think that perhaps the others are none the worse for staying with us,” Andrew Churchill answered, thoughtfully.  “I’m glad we did it, glad it’s over, and shall be glad to have other people come to see us—­by and by.  But—­I want a good long honeymoon first.  Is that your mind?”

“Yes,” she answered fervently, smiling.