eous dress and hat and shoes, was--Edwarda.

"A Princess of a doll!" cried Cis, dancing with happiness.

Later on, when she had put Edwarda to bed for at least the tenth time,
she came to comfort Johnnie. "Never mind," she said, "he'll be back. And
while he's gone, you can play he's here." Then with a far-away look in
her blue eyes, "What would _I_ do if I didn't pretend _HE_ was here!"

Johnnie groaned. The idea of her bringing up the Prince in the face of
such grief as his! It made him sick. He pinned the letter inside his
shirt. He dragged out the mattress and flung himself down. He would not
let her light the lamp. He yearned for the dark, where he could hide his
tears.

Oh, everything was swept away! Everything!

And even the dog, crowding close against him comfortingly, could not
lessen his pain.

CHAPTER XIV

THE HEAVEN THAT NEARLY HAPPENED

JANUARY came in furiously, peppering with sleet, bombarding with hail,
storming with snow-laden winds. Day after day the sun refused to show
himself, and the kitchen was so dark that, whenever work had to be done,
the lamp was lighted.

In such weather Johnnie was cut off from the outside world; was almost
like another Crusoe. Having no shoes and no overcoat, he would not
venture out for a walk with his dog. Fuel was so costly that he could
not even open the window to take his taste of the outdoors. His feet
were wrapped up in bits of blanket, and his thin arms were covered by
footless, old stockings of Cis's, which he drew on of a morning, keeping
them up by pinning them to the stubby sleeves of the big shirt.

Many a day Big Tom stayed at home, dozing away the time on his bed. Such
days were trying ones for Johnnie. Seated at the kitchen table, his
large hands blue with the cold, hour upon hour he twisted cotton petals
on wire stems to make violets--virtually acres of them, which he
fashioned in skillful imitation, though he had never seen a violet grow.
Violet-making tired him, and often he had a stabbing pain between his
shoulder blades.

But when Barber was away, the gloomiest hours passed happily enough. He
would finish his housework early, if none too well, scatter the oilcloth
with petals and stems, as if this task were going forward, then pull the
table drawer part way out, lay his open book in it, and read. It was
_The Last of the Mohicans_ which claimed all of his interest during the
first month of that year. And what the weather was outside ma