“The hymns she teaches the children are not solemn enough. They are all about happy days and care-free birds and joyous children, whose chief duty lies in obeying their parents and loving one another. I’ve looked on during the proceedings, carefully and anxiously, for four consecutive Sundays now, and I haven’t heard one word about eternal punishment, nor has she exhorted anybody to flee from the wrath to come!” “Aren’t you ashamed of your fit of jealousy in the light of this revelation, Mrs. Rogers?” asked Jean, laughing aloud. “I know he was once in love with your sister Mary!” was the evasive but crestfallen reply. “Well, Mr. Rogers,” said Jean, closing and locking the door, “we may as well be ending this interview. I founded the Sunday-school, and I will not abdicate till I get ready to leave the country. I never could be made to believe by your preaching or teaching that God wasn’t as good as my daddie, or even yourself. I am teaching the children to love and serve a beneficent God, and to love their neighbors as themselves. If that is heresy, make the most of it. Good-night! And, Mrs. Rogers, the next time you feel the unseemly pangs of jealousy, don’t make a fool of yourself before folks.” XLIII _JEAN IS HAPPY—AND ANOTHER PERSON_ December, gloomiest month in the year, had settled over the Ranch of the Whispering Firs. The steady mist of the rainy season was at its best, or worst, according to the point of view, mental and physical, of its beholder. The mighty colonnades of trees, that reared their pointed crests in the mist-enwrapped heavens, were busily engaged, at the foot of the Cascade Mountains, in storing away the moisture of the skies among the countless layers of vegetable mould and moss from which to draw their supplies for the next summer’s drouth. The sawmill, planing-mill, and shingle-loom were running day and night. The skid roads, upon which the leviathans of the forest were dragged to their final doom, were sodden, slippery, and already badly worn. Relays of oxen tugged at the creaking chains and complaining logs. The mill-pond, a lake upon the mountain-side, very much enlarged by a dam, lay half asleep under a soft coating of ice; and higher up, at the snow line, lay the ice-clad creek that fed it, sheathed in a coat of mail which held in check the waters that were destined, when a thaw should come, to overflow their banks and send a flood into the valley below. * * * * * “Are you an angel from heaven, or are you Ashton Ashleigh?” cried Jean, as a tall man entered at the open door and stood before her with outstretched arms. The color faded from her cheeks, and her heart gave a violent thump and then stood still. “Nothing angelic about me or near me this holy minute, unless it is Jean, my bonnie Jean!” exclaimed the intruder, as he clasped her tenderly in his arms. Jean was speechless for the moment with surprise and joy.