th about her
father.

The family was very gentle with the heartsick girl. Even Marty showed by
his manner that he sympathized with her. And she could not forget that
he had tried his very best to keep the knowledge of the awful crime from
her.

Janice brought down with her to the breakfast table the little presents
which she had prepared for her uncle, and aunt, and cousin. There were
no boisterous "Merry Christmases" in the old Day house that morning;
even Uncle Jason wiped his eyes after saying grace at the breakfast
table.

After all, Janice was the most self-controlled of the four. She said,
midway of the meal:

"I cannot believe all of that dreadful story in the paper. I want to
know more of the particulars."

"Oh, hush! hush!" begged her aunt. "I read it. It's too horrible! I
wouldn't want to know any more, child."

"But I must _know_ more--if there's more to be known. I believe I can
telegraph to Cida. At least, Mr. Buchanan at Juarez may know something
more about this man's story. I wish there was either telegraph, or
telephone, in Poketown."

"Gee, Janice!" exclaimed Marty. "Nobody could git over to Middletown
to-day. Not even Walky Dexter. The wind blowed great guns last night,
and the roads are full of drifts."

"But it doesn't look so from my window," said his cousin.

"Pshaw! all you can see is the lake. Snow blowed right across the ice,
an' never scarcely touched it. But there's heaps and heaps in the road.
Say! we got ter dig out Hillside Avenue--ain't we, Dad?"

"A lot of snow fell in the night--that's a fact," admitted Uncle Jason.

"But I see somebody coming up the street now," cried Janice, jumping up
eagerly from the table.

It was Walky Dexter, plowing his way through the drifts in hip boots.

"This is sure a white Christmas!" he bawled from the gate. "I got
suthin' for you, Janice. Hi tunket! can't git through this here gate, so
I'll climb over it. Wal, Janice, a Merry Christmas to ye!" he added, as
he stumped up upon the porch, and handed her a little package from Miss
'Rill.

"I am afraid not a very merry one, Walky," said the girl, shaking his
mittened hand. "Come inside by the fire. Uncle Jason, where is that
paper? I want Mr. Dexter to read it."

"Oh, dear, me!" murmured Walky, when he saw the heading of the Mexican
telegraph despatch. Then, with his fur cap cocked over one ear, and his
boots steaming on the stove hearth, he read the story through. "Oh,
dear, me!" he said