Claude and Dan, down in the corral, where they were provisioning the cattle against bad weather, found the air so thick that they could scarcely breathe; their ears and mouths and nostrils were full of snow, their faces plastered with it.  It melted constantly upon their clothing, and yet they were white from their boots to their caps as they worked,—­there was no shaking it off.  The air was not cold, only a little below freezing.  When they came in for supper, the drifts had piled against the house until they covered the lower sashes of the kitchen windows, and as they opened the door, a frail wall of snow fell in behind them.  Mahailey came running with her broom and pail to sweep it up.

“Ain’t it a turrible storm, Mr. Claude?  I reckon poor Mr. Ernest won’t git over tonight, will he?  You never mind, honey; I’ll wipe up that water.  Run along and git dry clothes on you, an’ take a bath, or you’ll ketch cold.  Th’ ole tank’s full of hot water for you.”  Exceptional weather of any kind always delighted Mahailey.

Mrs. Wheeler met Claude at the head of the stairs.  “There’s no danger of the steers getting snowed under along the creek, is there?” she asked anxiously.

“No, I thought of that.  We’ve driven them all into the little corral on the level, and shut the gates.  It’s over my head down in the creek bottom now.  I haven’t a dry stitch on me.  I guess I’ll follow Mahailey’s advice and get in the tub, if you can wait supper for me.”

“Put your clothes outside the bathroom door, and I’ll see to drying them for you.”

“Yes, please.  I’ll need them tomorrow.  I don’t want to spoil my new corduroys.  And, Mother, see if you can make Dan change.  He’s too wet and steamy to sit at the table with.  Tell him if anybody has to go out after supper, I’ll go.”

Mrs. Wheeler hurried down stairs.  Dan, she knew, would rather sit all evening in wet clothes than take the trouble to put on dry ones.  He tried to sneak past her to his own quarters behind the wash-room, and looked aggrieved when he heard her message.

“I ain’t got no other outside clothes, except my Sunday ones,” he objected.

“Well, Claude says he’ll go out if anybody has to.  I guess you’ll have to change for once, Dan, or go to bed without your supper.”  She laughed quietly at his dejected expression as he slunk away.

“Mrs. Wheeler,” Mahailey whispered, “can’t I run down to the cellar an’ git some of them nice strawberry preserves?  Mr. Claude, he loves ’em on his hot biscuit.  He don’t eat the honey no more; he’s got tired of it.”

“Very well.  I’ll make the coffee good and strong; that will please him more than anything.”

Claude came down feeling clean and warm and hungry.  As he opened the stair door he sniffed the coffee and frying ham, and when Mahailey bent over the oven the warm smell of browning biscuit rushed out with the heat.  These combined odours somewhat dispersed Dan’s gloom when he came back in squeaky Sunday shoes and a bunglesome cut-away coat.  The latter was not required of him, but he wore it for revenge.