original opinion on this one point, and he often told Custer that he
would have felt lost with a horse just anybody could have driven, for
while Bill might not and probably would not have suited most people, he
suited him all right.

"Well, good-by, son," said Mr. Shrimplin, slapping Bill with the lines.

Bill went out of the alley back of Mr. Shrimplin's small barn, his head
held high, and taking tremendous strides that somehow failed in their
purpose if speed was the result desired.

Twilight deepened; the snow fell softly, silently, until it became a
ghostly mist that hid the town--hid the very houses on opposite sides of
the street, and through this flurry Bill shuffled with unerring
instinct, dragging Mr. Shrimplin from lamp-post to lamp-post, until
presently down the street a long row of lights blazed red in the
swirling smother of white.

Custer reëntered the house. The day held the sentiment of Sunday and
this he found depressing. He had also dined ambitiously, and this he
found even more depressing. He wondered vaguely, but with no large
measure of hope, if there would be sledding in the morning. Probably it
would turn warm during the night; he knew how those things went. From
his seat by the stove he watched the hurrying flakes beyond the windows,
and as he watched, the darkness came down imperceptibly until he ceased
to see beyond the four walls of the room.

Mrs. Shrimplin was busy with her mending. She did not attempt
conversation with her son, though she occasionally cast a curious glance
in his direction; he was not usually so silent. All at once the boy