uld not have made him feel more certain of an approaching
storm. He began to question the disinterestedness which had led him to
show Miss Slocum the splendor of the winter landscape. The girl's gay
chatter could not drown the voice of his accusing conscience.
Fortunately for Mat, at this juncture Dr. Mason came to the rescue like
a fairy godfather.

They picked the doctor up at North Bloomfield. His baggage included not
only his skis and medicine-case but a violin as well. For the doctor was
a musical genius; and it had been his proud achievement to construct his
own instrument, which friends vowed was as excellent as a Stradivarius.
Often of a winter evening his music was more sought after than his
medicine. Mamie was delighted.

"So there's going to be a party to-night," she exclaimed. Mat promptly
seized the opportunity to secure the lion's share of the dances, and
immediately congratulated himself upon the approach of the storm, hoping
it might bring a whole series of parties.

"Bless you, my children," said the doctor, "it will be a pleasure to
call off the figures for the likes of you." The word "eugenics" had not
been coined as yet, but like all wise physicians the doctor believed in
the idea. It made his heart rejoice to watch the budding affection of
these normal, healthy young people. And he knew the magic of the violin.
And so they waltzed on to their heart's content in the large dining-room
of the hotel at Graniteville. At midnight, the feathery snow began to
fall, insuring several other blissful nights. Between dances they looked
out of doors and windows; when the drifts buried the whole first story
of the hotel, the warmth of that great bare room seemed even more
genial.

"The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men--
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell."

When refreshments were served, so pleased was the doctor with his young
friends' pleasure, that he drew them aside to tell them a bit of his
family history.

"My family," said the doctor, "lived for many generations in Ayrshire,
Scotland, neighbors to the family of Robert Burns. And, like the poet's
people, they were very poor. No wonder! The poor man has no chance in
the old country. Years ago an ancestor of mine leased a tract of
worthless swamp land for forty-nine years at a penny an acre per year.
By hard labor and perseverance he drained the land and made it
productive. So whe