“‘Ye Ornaments of a House are ye Guests who Frequent it,’” read the assembled company, in chorus.

“Oh, isn’t that beautiful!” cried Charlotte.

Jeff glanced at her suspiciously.  “She says that about everything,” he remarked.  “Don’t think much of it myself.  The sentiment may be awfully true—­or otherwise; but what’s the thing for?  If anybody wanted to hint at an invitation to visit Andy and Charlotte, he might have done it without putting himself on record on a slab of copper four feet long.  Who sent it, anyway?”

Celia hunted carefully through the wrappings, and everybody finally joined in the search, but no card appeared.

“I’m so sorry!” lamented Charlotte.  “I shall never know whom to thank.”

“It lets you out, anyhow,” Jeff said, soothingly.  “You won’t have to tell any lies.  The thing is of about as much use as a bootjack.”

“Why, but it’s lovely!” protested Charlotte, with evident sincerity.  “Copper things are very highly valued just now, and the work on that is artistic.  Don’t you see it is?”

“Can’t see it,” murmured Jeff.  “But of course my not seeing it doesn’t count.  I can’t see the value of that idiotic old battered-up copper pail you cherish so tenderly, but that’s because I lack the true, heaven-born artist’s soul.  Where are you going to put this, Fiddle?”

Charlotte’s eyes grew absent.  She was sending them in imagination across the lawn to the little old brick house next door, which was soon to be her home, as she had done every time a new gift arrived.  There were a good many puzzles of this sort in connection with her wedding gifts.  Where to put some of them she knew, with a thrill of pleasure, the instant she set eyes on them; where in the world others could possibly go was undoubtedly a serious question.

“Hello, here comes Andy!” called Just, from the window.  “Give him a chance at it.  Perhaps he can use it somewhere in the surgery—­as a delicate way of cheering the patients when they feel as if perhaps they’d better not have come.”

Charlotte turned as the hall door swung open, admitting Dr. Andrew Churchill and a fresh breath of October air.

Everybody turned about also.  Into everybody’s face came a look of affectionate greeting.  Even the eyes of the father and mother—­and this, just now, was the greatest test of all—­showed the welcome to which their own children were happily used.

The figure on the threshold was one to claim attention anywhere.  It was a strong figure with a look of life and intense physical vigour.  The face matched the body:  it was fresh-coloured and finely molded; and nobody who looked at it and into the clear gray eyes of Andrew Churchill could fail to recognise the man behind.

Lanse, who was nearest, shook hands warmly.  “It seems good to see you, old fellow,” he said, heartily.  “If this whirl of work they tell me you are in had kept up much longer, I should have turned patient myself and sent for you.  Going to find time to be married in, think, Andy?”