way between
the rapids and the center of the village.

"Yes, I think Worden owns it, but I know that no one wants it."

"Ah!" said Stoughton with a little laugh; "and now we must be getting
on. Good-by, and thank you for saving our lives, even if you have had
a crack at our project."

There was a sound of laughing voices on the porch and a jangle of
sleigh bells that dwindled toward the village, but Manson did not seem
to hear them. He stood blocking up the window, his hands thrust deep
in his pockets, staring at the vacant lot across the street.

Dinner that night cost Belding much searching of soul. "There'll be
three more," Clark had said, and forgotten all about it, but when the
Philadelphians sat down Belding's heart sank. On the table was a leg
of mutton, placed hastily by an agitated servant lest it freeze between
kitchen and dining room. Even while Belding carved it the gravy began
to stiffen. Behind Clark was a glowing fireplace, ineffectual against
the outside temperature, the windows were white with frost and the
whole house seemed to creak.

"Have some mutton," said the young man desperately.

Riggs rubbed his thin hands. "Thanks, I'm very fond of mutton. Do you
mind if I put on my overcoat? The floor seems a little cold." He
disappeared and returned muffled to the ears.

"You'd better hurry up with your food," said Clark soberly. "The human
stomach cannot digest frozen sheep." He glanced at Wimperley and
Stoughton. "What's the matter with you fellows?"

The two visitors coughed and apologized and went in search of their
overcoats. Clark began to laugh. "And to think that you three are
going back to furnaces and steam heat. Do you realize what Belding and
I are going through on your behalf?"

They got through the meal somehow, but Belding was utterly abashed.
The visitors played with the congealing mutton, poked at forbidding
potatoes, absorbed large quantities of scalding tea and then hastened
back to the big stove. Belding felt a hand on his shoulder.

"It's my fault. We should have let them go to the hotel. I suppose
we're used to it, they're not."

Presently, Wimperley began to yawn. "I'm going to bed."

Riggs glanced apprehensively upstairs, where it was even colder than
below. "I'm going to sleep in my clothes. My God! pajamas on a night
like this. Clark, what are you made of?"

In ten minutes the big stove was deserted, and Clark went from room to
room tucking i