but it looked sooty and gray here in the city. Nan began
to feel some depression, and to remember more keenly that Momsey and
Papa Sherwood were flying easterly just as fast as an express train
could take them.

It was cold, too. A keen, penetrating wind seemed to search through
the streets. Uncle Henry said it came from the lake. He beckoned to a
taxicab driver, and Nan's trunk was found and strapped upon the roof.
Then off they went to the hotel where Uncle Henry always stopped when he
came to Chicago, and where his own bag was checked.

Looking through the cab windows, the girl began to take an immediate
interest in life again. So many people, despite the storm! So many
vehicles tangled up at the corners and waiting for the big policemen
to let them by in front of the clanging cars! Bustle, hurry, noise,
confusion!

"Some different from your Tillbury," drawled Uncle Henry. "And just as
different from Pine Camp as chalk is from cheese."

"But so interesting!" breathed Nan, with a sigh. "Doesn't it ever get to
be bedtime for children in the city?"

"Not for those kids," grumbled Uncle Henry. "Poor creatures. They sell
papers, or flowers, or matches, or what-not, all evening long. And
stores keep open, and hotel bars, and drug shops, besides theatres and
the like. There's a big motion picture place! I went there once. It
beats any show that ever came to Hobart Forks, now I tell you."

"Oh, we have motion picture shows at Tillbury. We have had them in the
school hall, too," said Nan complacently. "But, of course, I'd like
to see all the people and the lights, and so forth. It looks very
interesting in the city. But the snow is dirty, Uncle Henry."

"Yes. And most everything else is dirty when you get into these brick
and mortar tunnels. That's what I call the streets. The air even isn't
clean," went on the lumberman. "Give me the woods, with a fresh wind
blowing, and the world looks good to me," then his voice and face fell,
as he added, "excepting that snake-in-the-grass, Ged Raffer."

"That man must make you a lot of trouble, Uncle Henry," said Nan
sympathetically.

"He does," growled the lumberman. "He's a miserable, fox-faced
scoundrel, and I've no more use for him than I have for an egg-sucking
dog. That's the way I feel about it."

They reached the hotel just then, and Uncle Henry's flare of passion was
quenched. The hostelry he patronized was not a new hotel; but it was
a very good one, and Nan's heart