Besides, there had been a few festivities. Old Mr. Chetwynd had given, in honour of his son's visit, a Christmas dinner, which had won him the heart of Frau Schultz. Frâulein Klinkhardt and herself had lavished more than their usual futile enthusiasm on a Christmas tree, which, owing to Raine, had something better than its customary _succès d'estime_. He had taken them to the theatre, made up skating parties at Villeneuve, at the other side of the lake. Some friends of his at Lausanne had given a large dance, to which he had managed to escort Felicia and Katherine, under his father's protection. A couple of undergraduates of his own college were there; they came a few days afterwards to Geneva to see him; and that was another merry evening at the pension. Katherine Stapleton had brightened, too, under the gaiety, and her eyes had lost for the time the touch of weariness that saddened her face in her gentler moods, and her laugh had rung true and fresh. There were many evident points of contact between herself and him, much that was complementary in each to the other. One day he had said to her laughingly,-- “I have come round to the opinion---which I had not at first--that you are the most incomprehensibly feminine thing I know.” “And I,” she had replied, “to the after-opinion that you are the most comprehensibly masculine one.” “Is that why we get on so well together?” “That is what I had meant to convey,” she had answered with a light laugh. The rest of which conversation lingered long after his departure in Katherine's memory. Now he had gone, and life at the pension resumed its dreary, monotonous round. Raine Chetwynd would have been surprised had he known the change wrought by his departure. Felicia obviously shared in the general depression, and, like Katherine, had memories of bright hours in which the sun seemed to shine exclusively for her own individual benefit. She thought of them wretchedly, as she stood by the window watching the flakes fall through the grey air. A voice behind her caused her to start, though the words seemed to come out of some far distance. It was old Mr. Chetwynd. He had been somewhat ailing the last day or two, unable to go out. In a fit of restlessness, he had wandered down to the salon. “Lost in the snow?” he asked, coming to her side. “Yes,” she replied, with a half sigh. “I think so. Quite. I was beginning to doubt whether I should find my way safe home again, and to grow almost tearful.” “You have no business with low spirits, my dear,” he replied, with a smile. “You should leave that to old people. Their hearts get lost in the snow sometimes, and when they feel them gradually getting stone-cold and frozen, then they may be excused for despairing.” “What is to prevent it from being the same with young hearts?” “The warm blood of their youth.” “That may keep them warm, but it doesn't prevent their being lost,” said Felicia, argumentatively.