ould possess such grace and culture as
did Edna. After tea, when she played and sang, his mystification
increased, for the bird-like voice and delicate touch were superior
to much that he heard among his city friends. It came out in the
course of conversation, however, that Edna had spent the last six
years in one of the finest schools in Boston--an inmate of her aunt's
family; and now she had come back to them to gladden the eyes of
those two, who almost set her up as an idol; come back, not spoiled,
taking up her daily little homely duties again with real zest.

Mr. Monteith found Mr. Winters most congenial company. He had read
extensively, and was keen in argument, throwing in a bit of poetry or
a witty story, as the case required. Edna brought her crotcheting and
made herself into a picture in one corner of the fireplace, her
changing, speaking face and piquant remarks lending interest to the
dullest subject.

"It is my opinion, Mr. Monteith," said Mr. Winters, as a fierce blast
dashed sheets of snow against the windows, "that, in all probability,
you will be obliged to spend your Christmas with us. If this storm
continues at this rate you will be a prisoner."

"For which I shall be most devoutly thankful," he answered.

"Well, our turkey is all ready, and we shall thank kind Providence
for sending you to us, snow-bound as we are."

Mr. Winters took down the old Bible and read "a portion with
judicious care," then a hymn and prayer, and the good-nights, and Mr.
Monteith was in the guest-chamber--a little white room under the
eaves, cold-looking in its purity but for the firelight glow. "The
name of that chamber was Peace," thought Mr. Monteith, as his
delighted eyes surveyed, it and with Bunyan's Pilgrim he felt that he
had reached "already the next door to heaven." It surely must be the
"chamber of peace," because "the window opened towards the
sunrising," and in the morning a glorious panorama spread itself
before him. Fences and all unsightly objects had disappeared. Just
one broad expanse of whiteness as far as the eye could reach. The
rough old hills, from foot to summit, wore a robe of unsullied
whiteness--the soft white garment rested lightly on roof and tree,
over all the rising sun shed rays of rosy light. It accorded well
with Mr. Monteith's spirit when he heard Mr. Winters singing--

"The New Jerusalem comes down.
Adorned With shining grace."

The host and his visitor l