and
dispensing a warmth that smiled at the storm and cold outside. There
was a book in the picture, also; and a pair of slippers; and a
smoking-jacket; and an armchair. From the ceiling was suspended a
great lamp that joined gloriously in the chorus of light and cheer.
The man who sat in the armchair, reading the book, was a
schoolmaster--a college professor to be exact. Soft music floated up
from below stairs as a soothing accompaniment to his reading.
Subconsciously, as he turned the pages, he felt a pity for the poor
fellows on top of freight-trains who must endure the pitiless
buffeting of the storm. He could see them bracing themselves against
the blasts that tried to wrest them from their moorings. He felt a
pity for the belated traveller who tries, well-nigh in vain, to urge
his horses against the driving rain onward toward food and shelter.
But the leaves of the book continued to turn at intervals; for the
story was an engaging one, and the schoolmaster was ever responsive
to well-told stories.

It was nine o'clock or after, and the fury of the storm was
increasing. As if responding to the challenge outside, he opened the
draft of the stove and then settled back, thinking he would be able
to complete the story before retiring. In the midst of one of the
many compelling passages he heard a bell toll, or imagined he did.
Brought to check by this startling sensation, he looked back over the
page to discover a possible explanation. Finding none, he smiled at
his own fancy, and then proceeded with his reading. But, again, the
bell tolled, and he wondered whether anything he had eaten at dinner
could be held responsible for the hallucination. Scarcely had he
resumed his reading when the bell again tolled. He could stand it no
longer, and must come upon the solution of the mystery. Bells do not
toll at nine o'clock, and the weirdness of the affair disconcerted
him. The nearer he drew to the foot of the stair, in his quest for
information, the more foolish he felt his question would seem to the
members of the family. But the question had scarce been asked when
the boy of the house burst forth: "Yes, been tolling for half an
hour." Meekly he asked: "Why are they tolling the bell?" "Child
lost." "Whose child?" "Little girl belonging to the Norwegians who
live in the shack down there by the woods."

So, that was it! Well, it was some satisfaction to have the matter
cleared up, and now he could go bac