ropped that day. He
buried his face in it, and groaned.

The wind had risen since sunset, and now the snow sifted drearily
against his windows. Down the chimney came the weird moaning of the
storm, sobbing and pitiful sometimes, and then angry and defiant. He
sat by the black stove with his overcoat on, holding the little
handkerchief against his lips, while the great, bitter sobs of
manhood tore their way through his heart.

All night long, while the storm raged around the little house and
rattled every door and window, he sat there numb with cold and dumb
with sorrow. The lantern burned out, unnoticed. At daylight he threw
himself across the bed, worn out with grief and loneliness, and slept
a heavy sleep, still holding the violet-scented handkerchief to his
lips.

* * *

When Arthur woke the sun was pouring in through the frosted windows.
He got up hastily and took off his overcoat; he was stiff and
uncomfortable. He went hurriedly out to his little kitchen, thinking
of the horses, which needed his care. An exclamation of surprise
burst from his lips.

A bright fire was burning in the stove, and a delicious odour of
frying ham came to his nostrils. His table was set with a white
cloth, and on it was placed a dainty enough breakfast to tempt the
appetite of any man.

He went hurriedly to the door and looked out--there were tracks
through the high drifts of snow! He turned back to the table and
poured himself a cup of steaming coffee. "Dear old Martha," he said,
"she is a jolly good sort!"

Arthur was gloriously hungry, and ate like a hunter. It was his first
square meal for more than twenty-four hours, and every bite of it
tasted good to him. "I never even thanked Martha for all her
kindness," he said, when he was done; "but that's the beauty of
Martha, she understands without being told."

CHAPTER XXVIII

A SAIL! A SAIL!

The buds may blow and the fruit may grow
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sere;
But whether the rain or the sun or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.

_----James Whitcomb Riley._

THE first week after Thursa's marriage Arthur kept to his own house,
and the neighbours, with fine' tact, stayed away. Many and varied
were the ways they took of showing the sincerity of their sympathy. A
roast of "spare ribs," already cooked, was left one day mysteriously
on his door-step; the next day a jar of pincherry jelly and a roll of
jelly-cake were th