teased. Her violets had been smuggled
up to her room so that they would not lead to questions and jokes, and
had faded away slowly in an inconspicuous corner, diffusing their
fragrance extravagantly as they drooped and wilted over the edges of a
tooth-brush mug. But two of them had been chosen to immortalize their
memory, and had been carefully pressed between the pages of the little
volume of stories.

After a first outburst of despair and tears, Alma had taken the bad
news from home with a quiet pluck that surprised and touched Nancy.
Her old-time unquestioning faith in Nancy was revived again, and she
felt that if Nancy could take a cheerful view of the outlook, why, it
could not be so very bad.

They left for home again, on the early afternoon train, with ten or
fifteen of the other girls, all of whom were, of course, in the highest
spirits. Only Charlotte knew that they would not return to Miss
Leland's after the holidays, and her sorrow at parting with Nancy was
touchingly apparent in her effort to seem cheerful.

It was after four o'clock when the two girls, trudging up from the
Melbrook station, through the snow, at length came in sight of the
little brown house. The long red rays of the sinking sun threw the
shadows of the bare trees across the unbroken white surface of the
lawn; and the cottage, with its gabled roof, was silhouetted against
the ruddy, western sky, so that it looked as if the light were
radiating from it.

"Oh, Nancy!" Alma turned a shining face to her sister. "I don't much
care what happens--it's home, and nothing can change that! Mother and
Hannah's inside, and there's a fire, and it's all so snug, and safe,
and _loving_!"

Nancy, who was gazing at the beloved little place with bright, dreamy
eyes, and that tender smile on her mouth that always gave her face a
singularly winning sweetness, answered:

"It makes me think of a picture I saw once--it was called the 'House at
Paradise'--I don't know why. It was just the picture of a quaint
little house, that seemed to be glowing from something inside of
it--and perhaps because the house in the picture made me think of our
home, I've always thought of this as 'Paradise Cottage.' Oh, my dear,
let's run!"

It was not until after supper, when they had gathered around the
fireside just as they used to, in dressing-gowns and slippers, that
they opened the council of war.

"Oh, my dears, what can you do?" sighed Mrs. Prescott. "I had