ith the big flakes downpouring diagonally from the east. Old
Jerome growled good-naturedly about villainous cab service and blockaded
streets. Nevada, colored like a rose, with sapphire eyes, babbled of
the stormy nights in the mountains around dad's cabin. During all
these wintry apostrophes, Barbara, cold at heart, sawed wood--the only
appropriate thing she could think of to do.

Old Jerome went immediately up-stairs to hot-water-bottles and quinine.
Nevada fluttered into the study, the only cheerfully lighted room,
subsided into an arm-chair, and, while at the interminable task of
unbuttoning her elbow gloves, gave oral testimony as to the demerits
of the "show."

"Yes, I think Mr. Fields is really amusing--sometimes," said Barbara.
"Here is a letter for you, dear, that came by special delivery just
after you had gone."

"Who is it from?" asked Nevada, tugging at a button.

"Well, really," said Barbara, with a smile, "I can only guess. The
envelope has that queer little thing in one corner that Gilbert
calls a palette, but which looks to me rather like a gilt heart on a
school-girl's valentine."

"I wonder what he's writing to me about" remarked Nevada, listlessly.

"We're all alike," said Barbara; "all women. We try to find out what is
in a letter by studying the postmark. As a last resort we use scissors,
and read it from the bottom upward. Here it is."

She made a motion as if to toss the letter across the table to Nevada.

"Great catamounts!" exclaimed Nevada. "These centre-fire buttons are a
nuisance. I'd rather wear buckskins. Oh, Barbara, please shuck the hide
off that letter and read it. It'll be midnight before I get these gloves
off!"

"Why, dear, you don't want me to open Gilbert's letter to you? It's for
you, and you wouldn't wish any one else to read it, of course!"

Nevada raised her steady, calm, sapphire eyes from her gloves.

"Nobody writes me anything that everybody mightn't read," she said.
"Go on, Barbara. Maybe Gilbert wants us to go out in his car again
to-morrow."

Curiosity can do more things than kill a cat; and if emotions, well
recognized as feminine, are inimical to feline life, then jealousy would
soon leave the whole world catless. Barbara opened the letter, with an
indulgent, slightly bored air.

"Well, dear," said she, "I'll read it if you want me to."

She slit the envelope, and read the missive with swift-travelling eyes;
read it again, and cast a quick, shrewd glanc