The room was tastefully furnished, a bright wood fire crackled cheerily on the hearth, and an astral lamp on the centre-table shed a soft, mellow light on two happy faces, on books, pictures, lounges, and easy chairs. In the adjoining room a table was set out with snowy damask, fine French china, and silverware, in readiness for the feast preparing in the kitchen, whither Mrs. Heywood occasionally hied to oversee the labors of her cook. “How the wind does blow!” she remarked, returning from one of these little excursions. “It’s a dreadful night for your father to be out. I wish Rolfe had come yesterday.” “I wish he had,” said Ada, running to the window. “How very dark it is! I’m sure they can’t see the road, or any tree that may be blown down across it. Mother, I am afraid they’ve met with some accident, for it’s nearly ten o’clock--high time they were here.” “We’ll not distress ourselves, dear, with anticipating evil; both we and they are in the Lord’s keeping,” replied the mother, striving to put away anxious thoughts. “I think Peace and Plenty will be able to find the road; I never knew them to miss it yet, even in nights as dark as this. Come, sit down by the fire, Ada, and read me again the letter you received from your brother the other day; that will help to while away the time till they come.” The girl complied, drawing the letter from her pocket, and seating herself on an ottoman at her mother’s feet. “I wonder,” she said, refolding the missive, “that Rolfe has never married. I pity the somebody that’s missing such a good husband.” “Time enough yet,” said the mother, smiling; “he is only twenty-eight. There! I hear the rattle of the wheels.” Both sprang up and hurried to the outer door, each heart beating high with delighted expectation. They were just in time to see Mr. Heywood alight from the vehicle, which had already drawn up before the entrance. “My dear,” he said, hurrying up the steps into the portico, “don’t be alarmed. I have not brought our boy, but he’s safe and well; sent me a telegram to say he’d missed the train, and will be here to-morrow, God willing.” “Well,” she said, with a sigh, “it’s a sore disappointment, but I’m thankful it’s no worse. You’ve had a hard ride, and--” “Have brought an unexpected guest with me,” he interrupted hastily. “Mary, dear, remembering the Master’s words, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me,’ you’ll not object to taking her in, for she may be one of His.” “Who, Joseph?” she asked in a startled tone. “A poor, forsaken, dying creature, Mary; I’ve not been able to learn her name.” And he hurried to the assistance of Mike, who had fastened his horses and was preparing to lift the woman from the wagon. Taking each an end of the buffalo-robe on which she lay, they carried her in between them and laid her gently down before the sitting-room fire.