Nannie was busy upstairs and called to him not to come up, as she had a surprise in store. He was to stir the fire and set her chair, which she would fill directly, and Steve had done all this and now was walking about the room, which was bright and pretty in the firelight, handling the books and magazines, trying a chord or two on the piano, and looking occasionally from the windows out into the night. That was wild enough, what with wind, and ice, and snow. Every now and then the little house shuddered in the blast, which was shrieking in the chimneys. The window glass was bearded with snow, which melted here and there and ran for a little space; then, lest one should fancy the weather were shedding repentant tears, it stiffened into ice straightway. Down at the foot of the bluff the lake was booming; there was something to make the blood run cold about its mighty passion. One thought of the boats at its mercy that night and whispered, God help them! There, in the center of it all, 'neath the trees that were clashing arms with one another in the storm, stood the snug little home, with the study, over whose pictured walls the cheery, flickering light played at glow and shadow. And there, close to the merry blaze, poker in hand, sat Steve, as happy, as well content a man as you'd find, though you looked far and wide. Brownie occupied the other chair, and it appeared that he had much to say. Nannie was singing--singing to the baby upstairs--and Steve and Brownie hearkened to the pretty notes. "You hear that, sir?" asked Brownie, with his head slightly tilted and cocked on one side. Steve poked assent at the fire. "You didn't think much of her at one time, did you?" Steve was gravely shocked and promptly poked remonstrance into the glowing coals. "Well, you were rather discouraged about her--you know that," persisted Brownie. Steve looked ashamed, but he was honest enough to nod slightly. "And now you see there isn't a less wearisome, a nicer, brighter----" Here Steve interrupted by stabbing the fire's front in a manner betokening the heartiest concurrence. Just at this point the subject of these thrusts entered the room. "No, you don't, Steve--no, sir. You shan't even have a squint till I get to the fire." And carefully covering Miss Baby from view, Nannie sidled along to her chair. "Now! Ask daddy what he thinks of Miss Loveland!" she exclaimed, dropping all disguises suddenly and holding the pretty little creature up in the firelight. "Oh, Nannie! short clothes!" said Steve with an admiring gasp. "Yes," said Nannie. "Look at the darling little shoes! See her kick them! Oh, she's so glad to be rid of those long dresses." Steve's poker was greatly agitated. "Nannie," he said, in his quiet way, "I hardly think I can wait much longer." "Then you shall have her. Now! Here she goes, daddy!" and Nannie tossed the baby, all laughter and dimples, into the delighted father's arms.