It was an ideal Christmas morning,—­clean and beautiful.  Such a wealth of purity was in the air that all the world was clothed with it.  The earth accepted the beneficence of the skies, and the trees bent in thankfulness for their beautiful covering.  It was a morning to make one thoughtful,—­to make one thankful, too, for home and friends and country, and a future that could be earned, where the white folds of usefulness and purity would cover man’s inheritance of selfishness and passion.

For an hour I watched the big flakes fall; and, as I watched, I dreamed the dream of peace for all the world.  The brazen trumpet of war was a thing of the past.  The white dove of peace had built her nest in the cannon’s mouth and stopped its awful roar.  The federation of the world was secured by universal intelligence and community of interest.  Envy and selfishness and hypocrisy, and evil doing and evil speaking, were deeply covered by the snowy mantle that brought “peace on earth and good will to men.”

My dream was not dispelled by any rude awakening.  As the house threw off the fetters of the night and gradually struggled into activity, it was in such a fresh and loving manner and with such thoughtful solicitude for each member of our world, that I walked in my dream all day.

The snow fell rapidly till noon, and then the sun came forth from the veil of clouds and cast its southern rays across the white expanse with an effect that drew exclamations of delight from all who had eyes to see.  No wind stirred the air, but ever and anon a bright avalanche would slide from bough or bush, sparkle and gleam as the sun caught it, and then sink gently into the deep lap spread below.  The bough would spring as if to catch its beautiful load, and, failing in this, would throw up its head and try to look unconcerned,—­though quite evidently conscious of its bereavement.

The appearance of the sun brought signs of life and activity.  The men improvised a snow-plough, the strong horses floundering in front of it made roads and paths through the two feet of feathers that hid the world.

After lunch, the young people went for a frolic in the snow.  Two hours later the shaking of garments and stamping of feet gave evidence of the return of the party.  Stepping into the hall I was at once surrounded by the handsomest troupe of Esquimaux that ever invaded the temperate zone.  The snow clung lovingly to their wet clothing and would not be shaken off; their cheeks were flushed, their eyes bright, and their voices pitched at an out-of-doors key.

“Away to your rooms, every one of you, and get into dry clothes,” said I.  “Don’t dare show yourselves until the dinner bell rings.  I’ll send each of you a hot negus,—­it’s a prescription and must be taken; I’m a tyrant when professional.”

We saw nothing more of them until dinner.  The young ladies came in white, with their maiden shoulders losing nothing by contact with their snow-white gowns.  All but Miss Jessie, whose dress was a pearl velvet, buttoned close to her slender throat.  I loved this style best, but I could never believe that anything could be prettier than Jane’s white shoulders.