Betsy continued to pat her. The good woman reflected concerning Irving Bruce with an effort at self-control and fairness; but a great longing that this girl should have her heart’s desire passed over her like a wave. A crunching of the snow sounded without. If Rosalie had been intending to confide in her, the chance was lost. For the first time Betsy regretted to hear her husband’s step. “There’s Captain Salter,” said Rosalie. The door opened. “Come in and get dry,” said Betsy, without looking around. She felt compunction for her momentary disloyalty. “Thanks, I don’t care if I do.” The women both started and turned. Irving Bruce stood there, his broad shoulders sparkling with snow. He set down his suit-case and stamped his feet. “You’ll have to build a porte-cochère, Betsy. The hack dumped me at the back fence.” The firelight fell on Rosalie as she stood, flushing. “Mr. Irving, _dear_!” cried Betsy, flying at him, considerations of hostess and friend stumbling over one another in the sudden chaos of her mind. “What does this mean?” “I just thought I’d run down and see the New Year in with you. Where are your manners, Rosalie? You might say you’re glad to see me.” Betsy saw his eyes and rejoiced. “Of course I am,” returned the girl, “but we country people aren’t used to shocks.” He left his fur-lined overcoat in Betsy’s arms, unconscious that he was burdening her; and she clasped it to her breast as if it had been part of himself. Her boy and her girl! Her boy and her girl! And they were standing there, their hands clasping, and their eyes meeting. Irving had not taken the uninteresting journey from Boston, and ploughed through the Fairport snow to see the New Year in with her. He had not broken away from the holiday gayeties of which Betsy had experience, to visit herself and Hiram in their snow-drift. Betsy’s heart exulted, and her cheeks were red. “Sit up to the fire, Mr. Irving. I’m goin’ to make you some coffee,” she said. “I didn’t ask if you had any room for me, but a blizzard seems to be starting. I can’t go to the inn, now.” “I guess I can put you somewhere. If you don’t like the accommodations you can sit up all night. There’s plenty o’ logs in the wood-box.” “I rather think I should like that. Have to see the New Year in, anyway. No use making two bites of a cherry.” Just as the coffee was being poured, Captain Salter came in. “My, but that smells good!” he said; then, perceiving the new-comer—“Irvin’ Bruce, is that you?” he roared jovially. “Well, you’re a good one. You’ll be disappointed though. I haven’t got the boat far enough along yet for you to tell anything about it. I know you said you’d run up here, but I calc’lated to let you know when.” “Too bad,” returned Irving. “I hope you don’t mind my coming, though.” “Tickled to death, tickled to death,” responded Hiram, receiving his coffee from his wife’s hand and with it a look which made him blink once or twice in doubt.