"I shall wrap you and Jimmy in this--you know it's snowing frightfully."

Miss Boutelle flushed a little. "I'm warm enough when walking," she
said coldly. Bob glanced at her smart little French shoes, and
thought otherwise. He said nothing, but hastily bundled his two guests
downstairs and into the street. The whirlwind dance of the snow made the
sleigh an indistinct bulk in the glittering darkness, and as the young
girl for an instant stood dazedly still, Bob incontinently lifted her
from her feet, deposited her in the vehicle, dropped Jimmy in her lap,
and wrapped them both tightly in the bearskin. Her weight, which
was scarcely more than a child's, struck him in that moment as being
tantalizingly incongruous to the matronly severity of her manner and its
strange effect upon him. He then jumped in himself, taking the direction
from his companion, and drove off through the storm.

The wind and darkness were not favorable to conversation, and only
once did he break the silence. "Is there any one who would be likely to
remember--me--where we are going?" he asked, in a lull of the storm.

Miss Boutelle uncovered enough of her face to glance at him curiously.
"Hardly! You know the children came here from the No'th after your
mother's death, while you were in California."

"Of course," returned Bob hurriedly; "I was only thinking--you know
that some of my old friends might have called," and then collapsed into
silence.

After a pause a voice came icily, although under the furs: "Perhaps
you'd prefer that your arrival be kept secret from the public? But they