Frances was laughing at Susan's earnestness, when she went out again. There was nothing in the day, though the mist dripped from shrub and tree and bespangled the grass and veiled the mountains, to foster heartache. The streets were filled with carriages, mud-splashed and encrusted, the horses red with clay above their fetlocks. The stores were bright with holly and cedar. Before the grocers' shops were coops of turkeys and strings of hams and barrels of oysters. The confectioners' windows were piled high with oranges and dates and nuts and raisins and candies. The dry-goods windows showed alluring furs and coats and breadths of cloth. Waiting at the curb was a string of carriages, their occupants calling gay greetings from one to another. Frances pulling close into the press felt herself one of the Christmas crowd. A shopper stopped at her wheel for a word or two; the busy clerk, when he at last found time for her order, had a ready jest: there was store after store to be visited. Frances felt the cheer of the blessed commonplaces. She was as bright as any of the crowd. Her cheeks were reddened with the soft damp air, her hair curled rebelliously about her forehead under the brim of her big hat. It was long past noon when she turned homeward. She went slowly. The crush of carriage and cart, of farm wagons loaded with cedar and holly, and ox-carts piled with cord-wood, demanded careful driving. She was nearly out of the shopping district when she heard her father call her. "I thought you were at home," she called back. "And I thought you were there." "You can drive up with me." She pulled as close to the curb as she could. "I don't know; Edward is in here," pointing to the store before which he stood. "What have you been doing?" The professor flushed with a guilty knowledge of the Greek cameo in his pocket. "Oh, I have been helping him select some Christmas presents. He's going home, you know, for the holidays. Here he is now. Can't you go out with us?" asked the professor, soon as the young man had greeted Frances. "I am afraid I ought not." "I'll drive you up by the stables," suggested Frances. "I wish you would. Have you time to see my new horse?" he asked, as Frances drove slowly and skilfully along the crowded street. "I didn't know you had a new horse." "No? I have been intending to ride her in when you could see her, but you have had so little time--" "But I have time now," said the young woman, enthusiastically, as she stopped before the stables. "Can't we go in and see her?" to her father. "Certainly." The young man put his mare through her paces up and down the stable aisle. "I want you to ride her some time," he declared, as Frances waxed eloquent over the horse's slender head and liquid eyes and shapely legs. "When can you bring her in? She's a beauty! I'd like to ride her now." "Shall I put your saddle on?" questioned Mr. Carver, who stood with the group admiring the animal.