It had ceased to snow. When Alethea opened the door many of the traits of Wild-Cat Hollow were so changed amid the deep drifts that one who had seen it only in its summer garb might hardly recognize it. Austere and bleak as it was, it had yet a symmetry that the foliage and bloom, and even the stubble and fallen leaves of autumn, served only to conceal. The splendid bare slope down the mountain, the precipitous ascent on either side of the deep ravine, showed how much the idea of majesty may be conveyed in mere lines, in a gigantic arc. The boles of the trees were deeply imbedded in drifts. On the mountain above, the pines and the firs supported great masses of snow lodged amongst the needles. Sometimes a sharp crack told that a branch had broken, over-burdened. The silence was intense; the poultry had hardly ventured off their roosts to-day; the gourds that hung upon a pole as a martin-house were whitened, and glittered pendulous. Once, as Alethea stood motionless, a little black-feathered head was thrust out and quickly withdrawn. Down in the cove the snow lay deep, and the forests seemed all less dense, lined about as they were with white, which served in some sort as an effacement. Through the narrow gap of the ridges was revealed the long mountain vista, with the snowy peaks against the gray sky. Very distinct it all was, sharply drawn, notwithstanding that there lacked but an hour, perhaps, of the early nightfall. For a moment she had forgotten her errand; the next she turned back in surprise. “Whar’s Buck an’ the wagin?” “Oh,” said Mrs. Jessup, still serenely casual, “he’s a-kemin’ up the mounting along o’ Ben Doaks. I met Ben, an’ I ’lowed ez I didn’t know how I’d make out ter drive sech a obstinate old steer up the mounting in all this snow. Buck hev fairly tuk ter argufyin’ ’bout the road ter go, till ye dunno whether ye air drivin’ the steer or the steer air drivin’ you-uns. I mos’ pulled off his hawns sence I been gone. So Ben, he ’lowed he’d like ter kem an’ spen’ a few days along o’ we-uns, ennyhow.” “Whyn’t ye tell that afore?” demanded her mother-in-law angrily. “Ye want him ter ’low ez we air a-grudgin’ him victuals. Lethe, put in some mo’ o’ them sweet ’taters in the ashes ter roast, an’ ye hed better set about supper right now.” For Mrs. Sayles had been accounted in her best days a good housekeeper, for the mountains, and she cherished the memory of so fair a record. Perhaps her reputation owed something to the fact that she entertained a unique theory of hospitality, and made particularly elaborate preparations when the guests were men. “Wimmen don’t keer special ’bout eatin’. Show ’em all the quilts ye have pieced, an’ yer spun truck, an’ yer gyardin, an’ they’ll hev so much ter study ’bout an’ be jealous ’bout ez they won’t want nuthin’ much ter eat.”