“They are dear little birds, doves. You look like one yourself, with the black band round your neck. You a turtle-dove, and Lettie a wood-pigeon.” “Lettie is splendid, isn’t she? What a swing she has—what a mastery! I wish I had her strength—she just marches straight through in the right way—I think she’s fine.” I laughed to see her so enthusiastic in her admiration of my sister. Marie is such a gentle, serious little soul. She went to the window. I kissed her, and pulled two berries off the mistletoe. I made her a nest in the heavy curtains, and she sat there looking out on the snow. “It is lovely,” she said reflectively. “People must be ill when they write like Maxim Gorky.” “They live in town,” said I. “Yes—but then look at Hardy—life seems so terrible—it isn’t, is it?” “If you don’t feel it, it isn’t—if you don’t see it. I don’t see it for myself.” “It’s lovely enough for heaven.” “Eskimo’s heaven perhaps. And we’re the angels eh? And I’m an archangel.” “No, you’re a vain, frivolous man. Is that—? What is that moving through the trees?” “Somebody coming,” said I. It was a big, burly fellow moving curiously through the bushes. “Doesn’t he walk funnily?” exclaimed Marie. He did. When he came near enough we saw he was straddled upon Indian snow-shoes. Marie peeped, and laughed, and peeped, and hid again in the curtains laughing. He was very red, and looked very hot, as he hauled the great meshes, shuffling over the snow; his body rolled most comically. I went to the door and admitted him, while Marie stood stroking her face with her hands to smooth away the traces of her laughter. He grasped my hand in a very large and heavy glove, with which he then wiped his perspiring brow. “Well, Beardsall, old man,” he said, “and how’s things? God, I’m not ’alf hot! Fine idea though——” He showed me his snow-shoes. “Ripping! ain’t they? I’ve come like an Indian brave——” He rolled his “r’s”, and lengthened out his “ah’s” tremendously—“brra-ave”. “Couldn’t resist it though,” he continued. “Remember your party last year—Girls turned up? On the war-path, eh?” He pursed up his childish lips and rubbed his fat chin. Having removed his coat, and the white wrap which protected his collar, not to mention the snowflakes, which Rebecca took almost as an insult to herself—he seated his fat, hot body on a chair, and proceeded to take off his gaiters and his boots. Then he donned his dancing pumps, and I led him upstairs. “Lord, I skimmed here like a swallow!” he continued—and I looked at his corpulence. “Never met a soul, though they’ve had a snow-plough down the road. I saw the marks of a cart up the drive, so I guessed the Tempests were here. So Lettie’s put her nose in Tempest’s nosebag—leaves nobody a chance, that—some women have rum taste—only they’re like ravens, they go for the gilding—don’t blame ’em—only it leaves nobody a chance. Madie Howitt’s coming, I suppose?” I ventured something about the snow.