A chill November day was drawing near its close. With the evening dusk snowflakes filled the air, and began to whiten the swells¹ and slopes of the Arling farm, and lay the foundation of future drifts beside the doorstep and under the eaves of the Arling homestead. This structure had begun life as a log cabin, but had grown, by the simple and natural process of adding on a room or a wing, as fast as it was required and could be afforded, into a large, and somewhat picturesque², cluster of roofs and gables; beneath which there might easily be not only room for the fullest, heartiest³ flow of domestic and social life, but also means and influences to a considerable degree of refinement⁴ and culture.

Toward it, a stout⁵, broad-shouldered personage was making his way, through the dusk and the snow, with a cheery face and an energetic tread, that plainly minded neither. Tramp, tramp, went the brisk footfalls up the gravel⁶ walk, the bright brass⁷ knocker was made to send a note of warning through the house, and the wayfarer⁸ admitted himself into a lighted hall, through which he strode to the open door of the sitting-room⁹ at the farther end.

A pleasant family picture was before him. Bergan Arling, on one side of the crimson-covered centre-table, looked up, smiling, from the book out of which he had been reading aloud. Two of his sisters sat near him, busy with crotchet needles and bright worsteds. Still another was drawing at a side-table; and over her, giving her the benefit of his criticism, leaned her brother Hubert, scarce two years younger than Bergan, and so strikingly like him, that one was often taken for the other, outside the family circle. At one side of the fire-place sat the master of the house, a tall, noble-looking man, with eye undimmed and hair unfrosted by the snows of over sixty years. Opposite him was the home's true light and centre, the house-mother. She reclined in a large, low easy chair, the paleness on her face half

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