&ldquo;One for me! A dozen for Chris, as usual,&rdquo; and Betty McLean laid her sister&rsquo;s letters on the breakfast-table and sat down. &ldquo;Mine&rsquo;s a fat one, anyway!&rdquo;<br />The sun was streaming into the morning-room, and the windows were wide open to the little garden. Chris, married four months ago and just home from a tour abroad, was fair-haired and pretty; but not so pretty as Betty. Betty, just twenty-one, had soft red hair plaited round her head and a fair freckled skin, and was as Scottish in her type and colouring as she was in her accent and her shy, reserved nature.<br />There was a touch of seriousness in her gray eyes which had come from the experiences of her home life; and Chris, glancing at her as she sat absorbed in her letter, noticed it afresh and wondered how she could banish that look from her younger sister&rsquo;s face. The invitation to Betty to visit her new home had been given with the idea of &ldquo;cheering Bets up,&rdquo; for home was lonely for Betty now.