It was a cold, snowy night that Courtland came down to the city and took the Western express for his holiday.

There was snow, deep, vast, glistening, when he arrived at Sloan’s Station on the second morning, but the sun was out, and nothing could be more dazzling than the scene that stretched on every side.  They had come through a blizzard and left it traveling eastward at a rapid rate.

Courtland was surprised to find Father Marshall waiting for him on the platform, in a great buffalo-skin overcoat, beaver cap, and gloves.  He carried a duplicate coat which he offered to Courtland as soon as the greetings were over.

“Here, put this on; you’ll need it,” he said, heartily, holding out the coat.  “It was Steve’s.  I guess it’ll fit you.  Mother and Bonnie’s over here, waiting.  They couldn’t stand it without coming along.  I guess you won’t mind the ride, will you, after them stuffy cars?  It’s a beauty day!”

And there were Mother Marshall and Bonnie, swathed to the chin in rugs and shawls and furs, looking like two red-cheeked cherubs!

Bonnie was wearing a soft wool cap and scarf of knitted gray and white.  Her cheeks glowed like roses; her eyes were two stars for brightness.  Her gold hair rippled out beneath the cap and caught the sunshine all around her face.

Courtland stood still and gazed at her in wonder and admiration.  Was this the sad, pale girl he had sent West to save her life?  Why, she was a beauty, and she looked as if she had never been ill in her life!  He could scarcely bear to take his eyes from her face long enough to get into the front seat with Father Marshall.

As for Mother Marshall, nothing could be more satisfactory than the way she looked like her picture, with those calm, peaceful eyes and that tendency to a dimple in her cheek where a smile would naturally come.  Apple-cheeked, silver-haired, and plump.  She was just ideal!

That was a gay ride they had, all talking and laughing excitedly in their happiness at being together.  It was so good to Mother Marshall to see another pair of strong young shoulders there beside Father on the front seat again!

It was Mother Marshall who took him up to Stephen’s room herself when they reached the nice old rambling farm-house set in the wide, white, snowy landscape.  Father Marshall had taken the car to the barn, and Bonnie was hurrying the dinner on the table.

Courtland entered the room as if it had been a sacred place, and looked around on the plain comfort:  the home-made rugs, the fat, worsted pincushion, the quaint old pictures on the walls, the bookcase with its rows of books; the big white bed with its quilted counterpane of delicate needlework, the neat marble-topped washstand with its speckless appointments and its wealth of large old-fashioned towels.

“It isn’t very fancy,” said Mother Marshall, deprecatingly.  “We fixed up Bonnie’s room as modern as we could when we knew she was coming”—­she waved an indicating hand toward the open door across the hall, where the rosy glow of pink curtains and cherry-blossomed wall gave forth a pleasant sense of light and joy—­“and we had meant to fix this all over for Steve the first Christmas when he came home, as a surprise; but now that he has gone we sort of wanted to keep it just as he left it.”