Some of the fireplaces had been stopped up, but one was left open in the sitting-room to please his father, and one in the guest-chamber to please him. It was here Connie had slept and sat on the hearth and held her little hands to the blaze, which she had liked. His mother, on receipt of the telegram, had opened the register in the room, and made it ready for her. “Warm as toast,” she said to Kenneth, when he inquired about it. But he insisted upon a fire in the fireplace, which he made himself, charging his mother to keep it bright until he returned with Connie. The storm was awful at half-past five, when Kenneth went to harness his horses, Pro and Con, to the covered sleigh. Con, who had been to Rocky Point and back, did not like going out a second time, and showed her dislike by pulling back when Kenneth tried to lead her out. “Easy, Con, easy! It’s hard, I know, but Connie is coming, and I would sacrifice both you and Pro for her sake,” he said, soothing the refractory animal, who, after a few protesting snorts, and throwing up of her head, squared herself to meet the storm, and went plunging through the drifts, dragging Pro after her, until the shelter was reached, where Kenneth left them until the train came in. It was very late before it came puffing up to the station, looking like a huge snow bank, with the light from the frosty windows showing dimly through the darkness. All along the line of coaches Kenneth looked anxiously, with a fear that she had not come, when the conductor appeared, and clinging to him was a slight form, which seemed to sway like a reed in the wind. “Is Dr. Stannard here?” was shouted through the darkness, and “Aye, aye,” came in response from Kenneth, as he sprang up the steps and passed his arms around the figure of the young girl. “Connie?” he asked, as he could not see her face. “Yes,” she answered, clinging to him like a child. “She’s been bad all the way. I guess she’s sick, or going to be,” the conductor said, giving her up to Kenneth, who took her in his arms just as he had taken little Connie sixteen years before, when she came in her blue cloak and hood and crept into his heart. As he had done then, so now he carried her to the sleigh and put her in and tucked the robes around her and took his seat beside her, and was out upon the road before a word was spoken. Then he said, “Connie, are you ill?” She had sat in a drooping posture till now, when she straightened up, and moving a little nearer to him, she replied: “I don’t know. I was sick on the ship, and I am so tired, and my head feels queer; but I am glad to be here. Are you glad? Is your mother glad?”