streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees. What cared they? Old Tom had built his roof well, and his chimney drew.

“Warm fire — books — comfort — safety from storm — our cats on the rug. Moonlight,” said Barney, “would you be any happier now if you had a million dollars?”

“No — nor half so happy. I’d be bored by conventions and obligations then.”

December. Early snows and Orion. The pale fires of the Milky Way. It was really winter now — wonderful, cold, starry winter. How Valancy had always hated winter! Dull, brief, uneventful days. Long, cold, companionless nights. Cousin Stickles with her back that had to be rubbed