runk as he climbed in, helpless. She
undid the counter check, ran across to the guard's house, was back in a
moment and tumbled in beside him.

"But, is it safe? My trunk, I mean," said John.

"Safe. No one will steal it. Pat will come for it. There he is now. Tuck
in the rugs. Put this shawl around you and over your head." She pinned it
with ready fingers.

"Now, you'll be real comfy." The chilled boy puzzled and amused her.

As he became warm, John felt better in the hands of this easy despot, but
was somewhat indignant. "To send a chit of a girl for him--John
Penhallow!"

"Now," she cried to the driver, "be careful. Why did they send _you_?"

Billy, a middle-aged man, short-legged and long of body, turned a
big-featured head as he replied in an odd boyish voice, "The man was busy
giving a ball in the stable."

"A ball"--said John--"in the stable?"

"Oh! that is funny," said the girl. "A ball's a big pill for Lucy, my
mare. She's sick."

"Oh! I see." And they were off and away through the wind-driven snow.

The girl, instinctively aware of the shyness and discomfort of her
companion, set herself to put him at ease. The lessening snow still fell,
but now a brilliant sun lighted the white radiance of field and forest.
He was warmer, and the disconnected chat of childhood began.

"The snow is early. Don't you love it?" said the small maid bent on
making herself agreeable.

"No, I do not."

"But, oh!--see--the sun is out. Now you will like it. I suppose you don't
know how to walk in snow-shoes, or it would be lovely to go right home
across country."

"I never used them. Once I read about them in a book."

"Oh! you'll learn. I'll teach you."

John, used to being considered and flattered, as he became more
comfortable began to resent the way in which the girl proposed to
instruct him. He was silent for a time.

"Tuck in that robe," she said. "How old are you?"

"This last September, fifteen. How old are you?"

"Guess."

"About ten, I think." Now this was malicious.

"Ten, indeed! I'm thirteen and ten months and--and three days," she
returned, with the accuracy of childhood about age. "Were you at school
in Europe?"

"Yes, in France and Hungary."

"That's queer. In Hungary and France--Oh! then you can speak French."

"Of course," he replied. "Can't you?"

"A little, but Aunt Ann says I have a good accent when I read to her--we
often do."

"You should say 'without accent,'" he felt better af