the boys,
although she was thirteen. Three-year-old Jamie and five-year-old Fred
came trooping in behind.

"Well, mamma, God has turned on the snow faucets," announced Fred, with
characteristic importance.

"An' all 'e fevvers is tummin' down fum 'e 'ky," shouted Jamie at the
top of his voice.

"And mamma, _can't_ we have a sled and go coasting this winter?" queried
Mabel, not noticing in her eagerness that her mamma was very sick.

"Oh, _don't_ make so much noise. Take them away and keep quiet, Mabel. I
can not endure so much confusion."

They went out clanging the door behind them in spite of their efforts to
keep quiet, and as their voices grew fainter, she thought with another
remorseful pang: "I have sent them away again. Why must I yield always
to self instead of overcoming?" Presently, however, all attempts at
thinking were lost in the efforts to get the camphor, bathe her head and
find some comforting spot whereon to rest her aching temples.

A subdued family gathered around the table that evening and everyone
felt the necessity of being quiet as possible. Even Fred and Jamie
understood that they _must_ keep still, and managed to keep their voices
down to something less than a shrill whisper.

Mrs. Hayden partook only of a small cup of tea and was then assisted to
her room, where she expected to remain for at least two days--the usual
time. Her husband spent the evening rubbing her head, bathing it with
camphor and keeping the house quiet as possible.

The next day dawned cloudy and grey, with a faint mildness in the air,
indicating a thaw. Mabel went to school, Fred and Jamie amused
themselves in the back parlor until they were tired and then flattened
their noses against the window, trying to see how many drops of melted
snow fell from the porch roof.

"I want a snow man," wailed Jamie, suddenly remembering what papa said
about the snow long ago.

"Well, you can't have it," said Fred, with great decision, who generally
opposed anything on principle.

"Yes, we can. We can go out and make one," persisted Jamie.

"Jack Frost'll bite your fingers."

"No he won't."

"He will--"

"He won't eever--"

"He will, 'cos mamma said so," said naughty Fred.

Jamie's little face clouded and the lip began to quiver; then a sudden
thought striking him, he jumped up, beaming with delight, and cried, as
he ran towards the hall:

"Mamma said Jack Frost couldn't find me when I had my overcoat and wed
mitte