came through the hall with a red sled.

"Here is William John's present. I've tied all the other things on so
that they can't fall off."

Edith was at the door-with a parcel. "Here are some nuts and candies
for William John," she said. "And tell him we all wish him a 'Happy
New Year.'"

"Thank you," said Bertie. "I've had a splendid time. I'll tell William
John. Goodnight."

He stepped out. It was frostier than ever. The snow crackled and
snapped, the stars were keen and bright, but to Bertie, running down
the street with William John's sled thumping merrily behind him, the
world was aglow with rosy hope and promise. He was quite sure he could
never forget this wonderful New Year.

Between the Hill and the Valley

It was one of the moist, pleasantly odorous nights of early spring.
There was a chill in the evening air, but the grass was growing green
in sheltered spots, and Jeffrey Miller had found purple-petalled
violets and pink arbutus on the hill that day. Across a valley filled
with beech and fir, there was a sunset afterglow, creamy yellow and
pale red, with a new moon swung above it. It was a night for a man to
walk alone and dream of his love, which was perhaps why Jeffrey Miller
came so loiteringly across the springy hill pasture, with his hands
full of the mayflowers.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of forty, and looking no younger,
with dark grey eyes and a tanned, clean-cut face, clean-shaven save
for a drooping moustache. Jeffrey Miller was considered a handsome
man, and Bayside people had periodical fits of wondering why he had
never married. They pitied him for the lonely life he must lead alone
there at the Valley Farm, with only a deaf old housekeeper as a
companion, for it did not occur to the Bayside people in general that
a couple of shaggy dogs could be called companions, and they did not
know that books make very excellent comrades for people who know how
to treat them.

One of Jeffrey's dogs was with him now--the oldest one, with white
breast and paws and a tawny coat. He was so old that he was half-blind
and rather deaf, but, with one exception, he was the dearest of living
creatures to Jeffrey Miller, for Sara Stuart had given him the
sprawly, chubby little pup years ago.

They came down the hill together. A group of men were standing on the
bridge in the hollow, discussing Colonel Stuart's funeral of the day
before. Jeffrey caught Sara's name and paused on the outskirts