of thin vapor blown by an unexpected gust of wind, through the door into
the kitchen, with a face colored scarlet from an actual, unmistakable
blush, though whence the blood came that reddened the clean cold-white
of her thin face is a physiological mystery.

In a moment the deacon was fully dressed and he scuttled as merrily and
noisily down the resounding stairway as a gust of autumn wind running
through a patch of russet leaves. Through the hall and kitchen he
bustled and out into the woodshed, where he ran against old Towser, the
big Newfoundland watch-dog, who stood in the passage expectantly
watching his coming.

[Illustration: "_Ha, none of that, you woolly-coated rogue, you._"]

"A happy New Year to you, Towser, old boy," he cried, and, seizing the
huge dog by his shaggy coat, he wrestled with him like a merry-hearted
boy. "A happy New Year to you, old fellow," he repeated, as the dog
broke into a series of joyful barks; "speak it right out, Towser. God
made you as full of fun as he has the rest of us, and a good deal
fuller than many of your kind, and mine, too," and with this backhanded
hit at the vinegar-visaged and acidulous-hearted of his own species, the
deacon shuffled along the crisp, icy path toward the barn, while Towser
gamboled through the deep snow and plunged into the huge, fleecy drifts
in as merry a mood as his merry master.

"A happy New Year to you, old Jack," he called out to his horse, as he
entered the barn, and Jack neighed a happy return, more expectant,
perhaps, of his breakfast of oats than appreciative of the greeting.
"And a happy New Year to you, you youngster," he shouted to the colt,
who, being at liberty to roam at will, had already appropriated a