everent joy. On earth she had known nothing but the
"broken arcs," but in heaven she would find the "perfect round"; there
at last, on the other side of the stars, she could remember right, poor
Lois Boynton!

For weeks afterwards the village was shrouded in snow as it had never
been before within memory, but in every happy household the home-life
deepened day by day. The books came out in the long evenings; the
grandsires told old tales under the inspiration of the hearth-fire: the
children gathered on their wooden stools to roast apples and pop corn;
and hearts came closer together than when summer called the housemates
to wander here and there in fields and woods and beside the river.

Over at Boyntons', when the snow was whirling and the wind howling round
the chimneys of the high-gabled old farmhouse; when every window had its
frame of ermine and fringe of icicles, and the sleet rattled furiously
against the glass, then Ivory would throw a great back log on the bank
of coals between the fire-dogs, the kettle would begin to sing, and
the eat come from some snug corner to curl and purr on the braided
hearth-rug.

School was in session, and Ivory and Rod had their textbooks of an
evening, but oh! what a new and strange joy to study when there was a
sweet woman sitting near with her workbasket; a woman wearing a shining
braid of hair as if it were a coronet; a woman of clear eyes and tender
lips, one who could feel as well as think, one who could be a man's
comrade as well as his dear love.

Truly the second heaven, the one on "this side of the stars, by men
called home," was very present over at Boyntons'.

Sometimes the broad-seated old haircloth sofa would be drawn in front of
the fire, and Ivory, laying his pipe and his Greek grammar on the table,
would take some lighter book and open it on his knee. Waitstill would
lift her eyes from her sewing to meet her husband's glance that spoke
longing for her closer companionship, and gladly leaving her work, and
slipping into the place by his side, she would put her elbow on his
shoulder and read with him.

Once, Rod, from his place at a table on the other side of the room,
looked and looked at them with a kind of instinct beyond his years, and
finally crept up to Waitstill, and putting an arm through hers, nestled
his curly head on her shoulder with the quaint charm and grace that
belonged to him.

It was a young and beautiful shoulder, Waitstill's, and there ha