th academies), and the general literary atmosphere which a social
acquaintance engendered.

Of course this social acquaintance was not without its drawbacks, and
it had been found necessary for both principals to require written
permits for the visits which the boys were inclined to make upon the
girls at Montrose.

So far, during this term, the boys had been fully occupied by their
athletic games; but as the ground became one series of frozen humps,
hands grew numb, and feet cold, the interest in them subsided; and yet
the love of misrule, so much stronger in a boys' than in a girls'
school, grew more active and troublesome.

Jerry Downer, a brother of Susan Downer, was a member of this famous
school; and it soon became known among a class of boys who studied the
Montrose catalogue more faithfully than they did their Livy, that he
had a sister there, that she was a lively girl, not too strict in
obeying rules, fond of fun, "up to everything," as they described her;
so it not infrequently happened that Jerry was invited by a set, with
whom at other times he had little to do, to ride over with them to
Montrose, he calling on his sister and cousins, while they apparently
were waiting for him.

In this way Jerry had been quite frequently there, no objection being
made by Miss Ashton, as a note from her to the principal of Atherton
Academy brought back a flattering account of Jerry as a scholar, and
as a boy to be fully trusted.

Jerry had improved in every respect since he went to Atherton. He was
now a tall, broad-shouldered, active, well-dressed young man, who rang
the doorbell of the majestic porch at the Montrose Academy with that
unconsciousness which is the perfection of good manners, and which
came to him from his simplicity, and went in among the crowd of girls,
neither seeing nor thinking of any but those he had come to visit.

Susan, in her own selfish way, was proud of him, so he was always sure
of a reception that sent him back to his studies ambitiously happy.

On the fifteenth of November there fell upon Massachusetts such a
snowstorm as the rugged old State never had known before. It piled
itself a foot deep on the level ground, heaped up on fence and wall,
covered the trees with ermine, until even the tenderest twig had its
soft garment; bent telegraph poles as ruthlessly as if communication
was the last thing to be cared for, blotted telephoning out of
existence, delayed trains all over the north,