tered self. His mind was still on his
calamity. "I really staggered under it."

"Shake it off and get in to the sleigh. My husband ought to have all the
big pines cut down." Rivers's mind had many levels. Sometimes they were
on spiritual heights, or as now--almost childlike.

"To stay indoors would be on the whole more reasonable," he said, "or to
have these trees along the avenue shaken."

"I'd like the job," ventured Billy.

"Keep quiet," said Mrs. Ann.

"It is most uncomfortable as it melts," said Rivers.

Ann thought of John Penhallow's early adventure in the snow, and seeing
how strangely real was Mark Rivers's discomfort, remarked to herself that
he was like a cat for dislike of being wet, and was thankful for her
privilege of laughing inwardly.

Billy, who was, as Leila said, an unexpectable person, contributed to Ann
Penhallow's sense of there being still some available fun in a world
where men were feebly imitating the vast slaughters of nature. He
considered the crushed umbrella, the felt hat awry, and the disconsolate
figure. "Parson do look crosser than a wet hen."

Then too Rivers's laugh set free her mirth, and Ann Penhallow laughed as
she had not done for many a day. "That is about my condition," said
Rivers. "I shall go home and get into dry clothes. Billy, you're a poet."

"Don't like nobody to call me names," grunted Billy.

"I wish James had heard that," cried Ann, while Rivers gathered up the
remains of his umbrella.

As Billy drove away, Mrs. Penhallow called back, "You will come to dinner
to-day?"

"Thank you, but not to-day."

As Ann came down the stairs to the hall, Penhallow was in the man's
attitude, with his back to the fire. Leila with a hand on the mantel and
a foot on the fender was talking to her uncle, an open letter in her
hand. Ann heard him say, "That was in October"--and then--"Why this must
be a month old!"

"It must have been delayed. He wrote a note after the fight at Belmont,
and that was in October. He did write once since then, but it was hardly
worth sending. As a letter writer, John is rather a failure, but this is
longer." She laughed gaily as she spread open the letter.

"He has got a new hero, uncle--General Grant. John is strong on
heroes--he began with you."

"Stuff and nonsense," said the Squire. "Read it."

Leila hesitated.

"Oh, let's hear it," cried her aunt.

"Go on, dear," said the Squire.

Leila still hesitated. Usually Ann Penhallow carri