“There! I spect this is the last chance I’ll have to clean up this place ’fore snow flies. Tim, the hackman, says it is bound to snow soon, and the frost _has_ burned ’most all the grass.” “I presume winter is almost upon us,” agreed Mr. Driggs. “Does the thought of it make you unhappy?” “Me? Oh, no, Mr. Driggs! I guess we can be just as happy in winter as in summer—or fall—or spring. All we’ve got to do is to look _up_, and not _down_, all the time. See how blue the sky is! And there are wild geese flying over, aren’t there?” she cried. “Why, even the wild geese must _look up_, Mr. Driggs. They’re looking for where it’s going to be warm weather, with the streams and ponds open, I s’pose. So, after all, I guess they’re wiser than some human folks, even if they are geese. Don’t you think so?” “I believe you, Carolyn May,” cried the minister, taking her little hand in his own as they walked out of the churchyard. Tim, the hackman, was a true weather prophet. That very night the first snow flurry of the season drove against the west window panes of the big kitchen at the Stagg homestead. It was at supper time. “I declare for’t,” said Mr. Stagg, “I guess winter’s onto us, Aunty Rose.” “It has made an early start,” agreed the housekeeper. “I trust you have made everything snug and fast for the season, Joseph Stagg.” “I reckon so,” said the hardware dealer easily. “Plenty of wood in the shed and a full pork barrel,” and he chuckled. Just then Prince whined out on the cold porch and rattled his chain. Uncle Joe never seemed to notice it! Carolyn May went to bed that evening in a much more serious mood than usual. Before going she got a heap of old sacks from the woodshed for poor Prince to snuggle down in. This snow did not amount to much; it was little more than a hoar-frost, as Mr. Stagg said. It frosted the brown grass, but melted away in the paths. This might be, however, the last chance for a Sunday walk in the woods for some time, and Carolyn May did not propose to miss it. It was the one thing Uncle Joe did for her that the little girl could hope was done because he loved her—“oh, a teeny, weeny mite!” Of course, uncles and guardians just had to take little girls home and feed and clothe them—or else send them to a poorhouse. Carolyn May understood that. But going for a Sunday walk was different. Uncle Joe’s yielding to her desire in this matter awoke the fluttering hope in the child’s breast that she was beloved. On this Sunday she wished particularly to get him off by himself. Her heart was filled with a great purpose. She felt that they must come to an understanding. They walked to the very glade where they had met Miss Amanda Parlow, and Prince had killed the blacksnake. Somehow, their steps always seemed to turn that way. But they had never come upon Miss Amanda in their walks a second time.