Outside a Christmas moon rode high above a sparkling ice-bright world and as the sleigh shot away into its quiet glory, Ralph, meeting the dark, tear-bright eyes of Sister Madge, tucked the robes closer about her with a hand that shook a little.

“‘Gipsy’ Hildreth!” he said suddenly, smiling, but the hated nickname to-night was almost a caress.  “Tell me,” Ralph’s voice was very grave—­“You’ve been sewing?  Mother spoke of it.”

“There was nothing else,” said Sister Madge.  “I could not leave Roger.”

“And now Mother wants you to stay on with her.  You—­you’ll do that?”

“She is very lonely,” said Madge uncertainly and Ralph bit his lip.

“Mother lonely!” he said.  “She didn’t tell me that.”

“Roger is wild to stay,” went on Madge, looking away—­“but I—­oh—­I fear it is only their wonderful kindness.  Still there’s the Doctor’s rheumatism—­and he does need some one to keep his books.”

“Rheumatism!” said Ralph sharply.

“Yes,” nodded Madge in surprise—­“didn’t you know.  It’s been pretty bad this winter.  He’s been thinking some of breaking in young Doctor Price to take part of his practise now and perhaps all of it later.”

“Price!” broke out Ralph indignantly.  “Oh—­that’s absurd!  Price couldn’t possibly swing Dad’s work.  He’s not clever enough.”

“He’s the only one there is,” said Madge and Ralph fell silent.

All about them lay a glittering moonlit country of peaceful, firelit homes and snowy hills—­of long quiet roads and shadowy trees and presently Ralph spoke again.

“You like all this,” he said abruptly, “the quiet—­the country—­and all of it?”

Sister Madge’s black eyes glowed.

“After all,” she said, “is it not the only way to live?  This scent of the pine, the long white road, the wild-fire of the winter sunset and the wind and the hills—­are they not God-made messages of mystery to man?  Life among man-made things—­like your cities—­seems somehow to exaggerate the importance of man the maker.  Life among the God-made hills dwarfs that artificial sense of egotism.  It teaches you to marvel at the mystery of Creation.  Yesterday when the Doctor and I were gathering the Christmas boughs, the holly glade in the forest seemed like some ancient mystic Christmas temple of the Druids where one might tell his rosary in crimson holly beads and forget the world!”

Well—­perhaps there was something fine and sweet and holy in the country something—­a tranquil simplicity—­a hearty ruggedness—­that city dwellers forfeited in their head-long rush for man-made pleasure.  After all, perhaps the most enduring happiness lay in the heart of these quiet hills.

“My chief is very keen on country life,” said Ralph suddenly.  “He preaches a lot.  Development of home-spirit and old-fashioned household gods—­that sort of thing!  He’s a queerish sort of chap—­my chief—­and a bit too—­er—­candid at times.  He was dad’s old classmate, you know.”  And Ralph fell silent again, frowning.