up an’ git big red apples, an’ when the frost ’ud come they’d be persimmons that ‘ud jes’ melt in yer mouth.  An’ you could look ’way off ‘crost the meaders, an’ see the trees a-wavin’ in the sunshine, an’ up over yer head the birds ‘ud be singin’ like they was never goin’ to stop.  An’ yer pa an’ me ‘ud take you out at the harvestin’ time, an’ you ’ud play on the hay-stacks.  I kin remember jes’ how you looked, Jim—­a fat little boy, with red cheeks a-laughin’ all the time.”

Mrs. Wiggs could tell no more, for the old memories were too much for her.  Jim scarcely knew when she stopped; his eyes were half closed, and a sweet drowsiness was upon him.

“It’s nice an’ warm in the sunshine,” he murmured; “the meaders an’ trees—­laughin’ all the time!  Birds singin’, singin’, singin’.”

Then Jim began to sing too, softly and monotonously, and the sorrow that had not come with years left his tired face, and he fearlessly drifted away into the Shadowy Valley where his lost childhood lay.

CHAPTER III

THE “CHRISTMAS LADY”

    “The rosy glow of summer
    Is on thy dimpled cheek,
    While in thy heart the winter
    Is lying cold and bleak.

    “But this shall change hereafter,
    When years have done their part,
    And on thy cheek the wintered
    And summer in thy heart.”

Late the next afternoon a man and a girl were standing in the Olcott reception hall.  The lamps had not been lighted, but the blaze from the back-log threw a cozy glow of comfort over the crimson curtains and on the mass of bright-hued pillows in the window-seat.

Robert Redding, standing with his hat in his hand, would have been gone long ago if the “Christmas Lady” had not worn her violet gown.  He said it always took him half an hour to say good-by when she wore a rose in her hair, and a full hour when she had on the violet dress.

“By Jove, stand there a minute just as you are!  The fire-light shining through your hair makes you look like a saint.  Little Saint Lucinda!” he said teasingly, as he tried to catch her hand.  She put it behind her for safe-keeping.

“Not a saint at all?” he went on, in mock surprise; “then an iceberg—­a nice, proper little iceberg.”

Lucy Olcott looked up at him for a moment in silence; he was very tall and straight, and his face retained much of its boyishness, in spite of the firm, square jaw.

“Robert,” she said, suddenly grown serious, “I wish you would do something for me.”

“All right; what is it?” he asked.

She timidly put her hand on his, and looked up at him earnestly.

“It’s about Dick Harris,” she said.  “I wish you would not be with him so much.”

Redding’s face clouded.  “You aren’t afraid to trust me?” he asked.

“Oh, no; it isn’t that,” she said hurriedly; “but, Robert, it makes people think such wrong things about you; I can’t bear to have you misjudged.”