“It is my opinion, Mr. Monteith,” said Mr. Winters, as a fierce blast dashed sheets of snow against the windows, “that, in all probability, you will be obliged to spend your Christmas with us.  If this storm continues at this rate you will be a prisoner.”

“For which I shall be most devoutly thankful,” he answered.

“Well, our turkey is all ready, and we shall thank kind Providence for sending you to us, snow-bound as we are.”

Mr. Winters took down the old Bible and read “a portion with judicious care,” then a hymn and prayer, and the good-nights, and Mr. Monteith was in the guest-chamber—­a little white room under the eaves, cold-looking in its purity but for the firelight glow.  “The name of that chamber was Peace,” thought Mr. Monteith, as his delighted eyes surveyed, it and with Bunyan’s Pilgrim he felt that he had reached “already the next door to heaven.”  It surely must be the “chamber of peace,” because “the window opened towards the sunrising,” and in the morning a glorious panorama spread itself before him.  Fences and all unsightly objects had disappeared.  Just one broad expanse of whiteness as far as the eye could reach.  The rough old hills, from foot to summit, wore a robe of unsullied whiteness—­the soft white garment rested lightly on roof and tree, over all the rising sun shed rays of rosy light.  It accorded well with Mr. Monteith’s spirit when he heard Mr. Winters singing—­

“The New Jerusalem comes down. 
Adorned With shining grace.”

The host and his visitor launched into a tide of talk immediately after breakfast.  They had so many things in common to talk over that there seemed to be no end.  So occupied was Mr. Monteith with the father that he seemed to bestow very little attention on the daughter; on the contrary, no word or look of hers escaped him.

At one time the perilous walk of yesterday was the subject of conversation, and Mr. Winters was again expressing his gratitude.  “So strange,” he remarked, “that you should have been coming this way.  How did you happen to start out in such a storm?”

Mr. Monteith did not like to talk upon that subject; he murmured something about “business,” while a slight flush tinged his cheeks, and at once asked Mr. Winters “what effect he supposed the resumption of specie payment would have upon the state of the country,” and the unsuspecting old gentleman was ready to enter with avidity upon the discussion of that subject.

The Christmas dinner duly disposed of, Edna opened the piano, and Mr. Monteith delighted the old people by joining his exquisite tenor to Edna’s voice in some old hymns.  Mr. Winters called for his favourites, “St. Martins,” “Golden Hill,” “Exhortation,” and listened with tears in his eyes at their faithful rendering, even essaying to put in a few notes of bass himself among the quavers of old St. Martins.

Not until the shadows began to steal into the room did Mr. Monteith take his departure, much to his own regret as well as that of his entertainers, with many promises of future visits.