of Dakota without disturbing the course of
events. They both loved riding. The lawyer told them that there was
capital riding about the Black Hills. The place he suggested was called
Bear Spring.

The world without lay in great curving swathes of white, pricked out by
green-black pines as in an old Japanese print.

On the third day came a bundle of letters forwarded from Ontowega. The
two that Sophy kept for the last were from Bobby and Amaldi. How strange
it seemed to see the Italian stamp in the snowy wilderness of Bear
Spring! And that seal with its arms and motto--"_Che prendo--tengo_"....
In a flash there rose the memory of the struggle between Loring and
Belinda for Amaldi's ring.... How things could hurt one ... things like
the impression of a seal. Then she opened Bobby's letter. At the top was
written, "I did not let Mr. Grey see this letter. So please to excuse
mistakes. R. C. C." Among other things it said:

"Mother, since you went away, I have decided a important thing. I
have decided to be an Author--like you are. I send you a poim. It
is called 'Plantagenet.' Mr. Grey does not think my best is
poertry. He likes the best what I wrote about 'A grey day.' Please
tell me which you like best. It is most important, as I must
decide as soon as possible if I will be a statesman or a poit.--A
author anyhow."

"Plantagenet" began as follows:

"Richard of England, monarch brave,
Bold as the lion that haunts the cave,
Wielding thy battle-axe with a crash,
As into the foe thou dost boldly dash!"

"Oh, my darling little 'poit'!" murmured Sophy, as she read. But she did
not think, from "Plantagenet," that Bobby would ever really be a "poit."
The "Grey Day," however, was another thing. Sophy had a queer feeling
about her heart as she read that.

"The day is very still. It is grey and tired. It seems old as if
the sun had risen a long time ago, and it is too tired to go on.
It seems standing there before me so tired. The clouds hang in the
air very still. The grey light creeps into the house, and the
house is still like the day. All is still and grey, even my
thoughts. Only the clock moves, and the fire. Only the fire shines
in the greyness. I do not know why it makes me so sad to see the
red of the fire in the greyness; I do not know why it is such a
sorrowful thing to hear the clock ticking very slowly, or why the
rust