“What does lumber cost around here?” asked John. Markham looked over at him gratefully and the conversation turned into new channels. Christmas Day dawned bright and clear but colder than any since John had been there. Uncle Casper made his appearance rather late, rubbing his hands briskly, and wearing a half-frozen appearance. “Pow’ful cold, sir, this mawnin’,” he volunteered as he laid the fire. “Ev’ything’s friz up tight; yes, sir. Reckon, though, you folkses up No’th has it a heap colder’n this, sir?” “Yes, Uncle, we wouldn’t call this anything where I come from. I see your wood lights all right?” “Sir? Yes, sir.” “Oh, well, it isn’t really cold then. When it gets so that the wood freezes and won’t catch fire we call it chilly up North.” The darky paused with a flaring pine splinter in his benumbed fingers and stared with round eyes. “’Fore Gawd, Mister No’th!” he ejaculated finally. “I never heard tell of that. Whoo――_ee_! No, sir, I reckon we jus’ don’t know what cold is, sir. My nephew he works up in New Yo’k; he’s a waiter in a mons’rous big hotel up there. He done tol’ me that they fust winter he was there he come mighty nigh perishin’ with they cold; yes, sir. But, Lordie, sir, I didn’t s’pect it was like that!” He ambled out, shaking his head and muttering volubly. When Will returned from Melville with the mail he also bore two packages, one addressed to Mrs. Ryerson and one to Margaret. When opened they divulged great, long-stemmed red roses and in the little envelopes were John’s cards; he had ordered the blossoms by mail from Washington. Margaret loved flowers, and the gift dispelled the last of her resentment toward John, a resentment which during the past two days she had experienced much difficulty in keeping alive. John surmised his complete forgiveness and was comforted. Somehow, despite that in the kitchen preparation of a big Christmas dinner was going forward, Margaret found more leisure from household duties that day than on any day since John had transgressed, and she made no efforts to avoid his society. The mail brought letters to John and one to Phillip――at least, it resembled a letter in outward appearance. But when, in the seclusion of his room, Phillip tore it madly open, he found only a small photograph. But he didn’t seem disappointed. On the back of the picture were the words, penned in large, stylish and very illegible characters, “Phillip from Betty.” Although he kept it in the breast pocket of his jacket all day――and for many days thereafter――and referred to it surreptitiously whenever occasion allowed, it was not exhibited to any one, not even to John. The latter’s letters were from his mother and David. The former spoke encouragingly of his father’s health. The letter was written from Mentone.