Every one who watched the sun rise on New Year’s morning, 1875, will bear witness to the beauty of the sight.  Snow had been lying all over the country for some time, and a fortnight of frost had made it hard and dry and crisp.  The streams must have felt very queer when they were dropping off into the mesmeric trance, and found themselves stopped in the very act of running, their supple limbs growing stiff and heavy and their voices dying in their throats, till they were thrown into a deep sleep, and a strange white, still, glassy beauty stole over them by the magic power of frost.  The sun got up rather late, no doubt—­between eight and nine o’clock—­probably saying to himself, “These people think I have lost my power—­that the Ice King has it all his own way.  I’ll let them see:  I’ll make his glory pale before mine.”

Lady Arthur was standing at her window when she saw him look over the shoulder of a hill and throw a brilliant deep gold light all over the land covered with snow as with a garment, and every minute crystal glittered as if multitudes of little eyes had suddenly opened and were gleaming and winking under his gaze.  To say that the bosom of Mother Earth was crusted with diamonds is to give the impression of dullness unless each diamond could be endowed with life and emotion.  Then he threw out shaft after shaft of color—­scarlet and crimson and blue and amber and green—­which gleamed along the heavens, kindling the cold white snow below them into a passion of beauty:  the colors floated and changed form, and mingled and died away.  Then the sun drew his thick winter clouds about him, disappeared, and was no more seen that day.  He had vindicated his majesty.

Lady Arthur thought it was going to be a bright winter day, and at breakfast she proposed a drive to Cockhoolet Castle, an old place within driving distance to which she paid periodical visits:  they would take luncheon on the battlements and see all over the country, which must be looking grand in its bridal attire.

John was called in and asked if he did not think it was going to be a fine day.  He glanced through the windows at the dark, suspicious-looking clouds and said, “Weel, my leddy, I’ll no uphaud it.”  This was the answer of a courtier and an oracle, not to mention a Scotchman.  It did not contradict Lady Arthur, it did not commit himself, and it was cautious.

“I think it will be a fine day of its kind,” said the lady, “and we’ll drive to Cockhoolet.  Have the carriage ready at ten.”

“If we dinna wun a’ the gate, we can but turn again,” John thought as he retired to execute his orders.

“It is not looking so well as it did in the morning,” said Miss Adamson as they entered the carriage, “but if we have an adventure we shall be the better for it.”

“We shall have no such luck,” said Lady Arthur:  “what ever happens out of the usual way now?  There used to be glorious snowstorms long ago, but the winters have lost their rigor, and there are no such long summer days now as there were when I was young.  Neither persons nor things have that spirit in them they used to have;” and she smiled, catching in thought the fact that to the young the world is still as fresh and fair as it has appeared to all the successive generations it has carried on its surface.