ter. It was only what must
be every year, and a gracious provision of Providence. If a man earned
very little money, that was against him in one way, but encouraged him
in another. It brought home to his mind the surety that others would
be kind to him; not with any sense of gift, but a large good-will of
sharing.

But the first snow that visits the day, and does not melt in its own
cold tears, is a sterner sign for every one. The hardened wrinkle, and
the herring-bone of white that runs among the brown fern fronds, the
crisp defiant dazzle on the walks, and the crust that glitters on the
patient branch, and the crest curling under the heel of a gate, and the
ridge piled up against the tool-house door--these, and the shivering
wind that spreads them, tell of a bitter time in store.

The ladies of Scargate Hall looked out upon such a December afternoon.
The massive walls of their house defied all sudden change of
temperature, and nothing less than a week of rigor pierced the comfort
of their rooms. The polished oak beams overhead glanced back the merry
fire-glow, the painted walls shone with rosy tints, and warm lights
flitting along them, and the thick-piled carpet yielded back a velvety
sense of luxury. It was nice to see how bleak the crags were, and the
sad trees laboring beneath the wind and snow.

"If it were not for thinking of the poor cold people, for whom one feels
so deeply," said the gentle Mrs. Carnaby, with a sweet soft sigh, "one
would rather enjoy this dreary prospect. I hope there will be a deep
snow to-night. There is every sign of it upon the scaurs. And then,
Philippa, only think--no post, no plague of news, no prospect of even
that odious Jellicorse! Once more we shall have our meals in quiet."

Mrs. Carnaby loved a good dinner right well, a dinner unplagued by
hospitable cares; when a woodcock was her own to dwell on, and pretty
little teeth might pick a pretty little bone at ease.

"Eliza, you are always such a creature of the moment," Mistress Yordas
answered, indulgently; "you do love the good things of the world too
much. How would you like to be out there, in a naked little cottage
where the wind howls through, and the ewer is frozen every morning? And
where, if you ever get anything to eat--"

"Philippa, I implore you not to be so dreadful. One never can utter the
most commonplace reflection--and you know that I said I was sorry for
the people."

"My object is good, as you ought to kno