The college monthly came to her regularly now. It always had poems or stories by Glenn Andrews. All these she preserved. There was a sort of reverence in her care of them. They were a part of him--his creations. In the satisfaction derived from them, she became more impatient as to her own imperfections. The ripe, rich beauty of autumn trailed by in all its glory without the love it once had from her. Her walks became less frequent. She felt a relief when the snow first fell. Snow always suggested Christmas. She kept such close watch that the calendar was not needed to tell her when it was near. In the innocence of her heart, she pictured Glenn Andrews watching the hours go by with the same impetuous eagerness--he who had gone back to his old solitary life, as though nothing had dropped in for a moment to change it. It was Christmas. A light snow lay over the valley. Esther wrapped a hood close about her head and walked back and forth on the verandah. A low wind among the white boughs made a lullaby for her longing. The nearer the realization, the more impatient she grew. At last the sound of wheels, and the brisk stepping of horses charmed her heart--he was coming. She heard the sound of his voice as there was a halt at the gate. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Mr. Glenn?” “Who else did you expect?” asked Glenn Andrews, stretching out his hand cordially to greet her, enjoying the dignity she tried to assume. He had speculated as to how she would meet him. The fire roaring up the wide chimney was sweeter than music to him. It had been a cold ride. They were so glad to see him, Glenn thought it was the next best thing to going home. “Get up close and warm yourself.” Esther shivered at the thought of his being cold. “Let me have your coat, Mr. Glenn.” “No, it’s too heavy; I’ll lay it over here.” Folding it he threw it across a divan and drew his chair up to the fire. Esther leaned on the edge of the mantle, looking at him. The wind had blown in her hair, it lashed about her face, and with the old careless gesture she tossed it back, impatiently. “Have you been pulling that hair out again?” said Glenn, with a sort of proprietary right. “No, but I’ve been cutting it off.” “You haven’t!” These words held the heat of indignation. “If you don’t believe it, I’ll prove it.” She stepped over to him as she drew something from her belt and pressed it in his hand. “You know Christmas never came to you from me before.” Just at that minute Mr. Campbell came in. He settled himself in his own rocking chair with a sigh of relief, as though he were hypnotized by the warmth of the room. He talked on and on, selecting topics upon which neither seemed to have an idea. Esther had made her a lot of pillows out of some old silk dresses of quaint patterns, and as she sat amongst them, she was almost afraid to breathe lest she split them. They smelled very strongly of tobacco, having been so long packed away in its leaves.