"Father is asleep. It was late when he went to bed last night, and he is so tired out that we shall let him sleep as long as he will. Get your clothes, and shut the door softly." She did as she was bidden, with a furtive glance at the mound under the blankets. Her mother soon had her dressed in a sort of brownish red flannel frock, and a blue and white checked apron. Then she brushed out her silky hair, and made three or four thick curls. "Oh, isn't it funny! Why, we can't see anything, not a house, or a tree, nor grandad's." They could see that in almost any storm. She went and patted Judy. Gran'mere was frying bacon, and when that was brown and crisp, she slipped some eggs in the pan. Grandfather kept his bed late winter mornings, and only wanted a bit of toast and a cup of coffee. That was generally made by roasting wheat grains, with a tiny bit of corn, and made very fair coffee. But it was necessity then, not any question of nerves or health. So they ate their breakfast and everything seemed quite as usual except the snow. So far there had been none to speak of. Gran'mere put out the candle, and the room was in a sort of whitey-gray light. There was queer, muffled banging outside, that came nearer, and finally touched the door, and a voice said "Hello! hello!" Barbe opened it. There was grandad, in his frieze coat and fur cap, a veritable Santa Claus. "Well, was there ever the beat of this! Stars out at twelve? The old woman's geese are gettin' plucked close to the skin. Why, it's furious! Dilly, come out and let me tumble you in the snow bank." She shrank back, laughing. "I'd have to dig you out again. How is the lad? Did we upset grandfather with the racket?" "Oh, no. He always sleeps late. Have a cup of hot coffee." "An' that's just what I will. Well, the lad's lucky that he was no' a day later, he'd been stumped for good. By the nose of St. Andrew, I never saw so much snow fall in a little time. An' it's dark as the chimney back." "The snow is white," interposed Daffodil. "Ah, ye're a cunnin' bairn. But put a lot of it together, and it turns the air. The coffee's fine, it warm the cockles of one's heart." "What are they?" "Oh, the little fellys that get hot, an' cold, an' keep the blood racin' round. And have delight bottled up to give out now and then when one is well treated." Daffodil nodded. She was not going to say she did not understand. "An' the b'y? He wants fat, sure. The country's made a poor shoat out of him. Well, I must go back, shovelin' for the path's about grown up. The boss out to the barn?" "Yes." "Well, I'll kem over agin, an' give him a hand." "Grandad has a good heart," said Mrs. Bradin. Mr. Bradin came in presently with a pail of milk. "This beats all for a storm," he said. "Now, I'll take a second breakfast. Dilly, come and sit here beside me, and take a taste of things. Not a livin' hen is up yet, just balls of feathers on the perch." "Couldn't you take me out to see them?"