CHAPTER XVIII.
“THE VICTOR’S CROWN OF GOLD.”
The Old Year was dying fast. It had wrapped itself in a soft white mantle of snow, and was quietly waiting until the midnight bells should announce the coming of the young New Year, laden under its mysterious burden of joy and sadness, pain and pleasure, hope and its fulfilment or its disappointment, that, day by day, it would unfold before the busy world.
But although the New Year was anxiously awaited by many a soul, the old one, now dying, had been a good friend to them all, and especially to the little group now chatting in the Carters’ library.
As Bess looked about among her boys, from Ted and Bert, now taller than herself, who sat at her either hand, to Rob, who stood leaning on the back of her chair, and then to Phil, who was perched on the large table that filled the
