“And on Friday,” added the Mistress, “there’s going to be a beautiful surprise for you, Cyril. We can’t tell you what it is, but—” “Why can’t you tell me?” urged the child. “Aw, go ahead and tell me! I think you might.” The Master had gone over to the nearest window; and was staring out into the grey-black dusk. Midwinter gripped the dead world; and the twilight air was deathly chill. The tall naked treetops stood gaunt and wraithlike against a leaden sky. To the north, the darkness was deepest. Evil little puffs of gale stirred the powdery snow into myriads of tiny dancing white devils. It had been a fearful winter, thus far; colder than for a score of years; so cold that many a wild woodland creature, which usually kept far back in the mountains, had ventured down nearer to civilisation for forage and warmth. Deer tracks a-plenty had been seen, close up to the gates of the Place. And, two days ago, in the forest, half a mile away, the Master had come upon the half-human footprints of a young bear. Starvation stalked abroad, yonder in the white hills. And need for provender had begun to wax stronger among the folk of the wilderness than their inborn dread of humans. “There’s a big snowstorm coming up,” ruminated the Master, as he scanned the grim weather-signs. “A blizzard, perhaps. I—I hope it won’t delay any incoming steamers. I hope at least one of them will dock on schedule. It—” He turned back from his musings, aware for the first time that a right sprightly dialogue was going on. Cyril was demanding for the eighth time: “_Why_ won’t you tell me? Aw, I think you might! What’s going to happen that’s so nice, Friday?” “Wait till Friday and see,” laughed the Mistress. “Shucks!” he snorted. “You might tell me, now. I don’t want to wait and get s’prised. I want to know now. Tell me!” Under her tolerant smile, the youngster’s voice scaled to an impatient whine. He was beginning to grow red. “Let it go at that!” ordained the Master. “Don’t spoil your own fun, by trying to find out, beforehand. Be a good sportsman.” “Fun!” snarled Cyril. “What’s the fun of secrets? I want to know—” "It’s snowing," observed the Mistress, as a handful of flakes began to drift past the windows, tossed along on a puff of wind. “I want to _know!_” half-wept the child; angry at the change of subject, and noting that the Mistress was moving toward the next room, with Lad at her heels. “Come back and tell me!” He stamped after her to bar her way. Lad was between the irate Cyril and the Mistress. In babyish rage at the dog’s placid presence in his path, he drew back one ungainly foot and kicked the astonished collie in the ribs. At the outrage, Lad spun about, a growl in his throat. But he forbore to bite or even to show his teeth. The growl had been of indignant protest at such unheard-of treatment; not a menace. Then the dog stalked haughtily to his cave, and lay down there.