The overseer came to supper that night, looking very uncomfortable in his “party clothes,” and added fifty per cent. to the gaiety of the occasion. He had a wealth of good stories which, while familiar to the others, were new to John, and told them deliciously, with many a “Gingeration!” and “By doggie, sir!” John was sensible of a quite unaccustomed feeling of exhilaration, and his high spirits plainly surprised Phillip. Mrs. Ryerson coquetted ceremoniously and impartially with both guests, while Margaret’s animation verged almost on frivolity.

“It seems to do you good to be run away with,” Phillip told her.

“It does,” she smiled. “I like it!”

“If I was some younger, Miss Margey,” cried Markham with a courtly bow, “I’d take yo’ at yo’ word! By doggie, yes, ma’am!”

“Oh, dear! I so wish you were!” Margaret sighed.

Phillip’s eyebrows went up. This was a new Margey.

But if she was all graciousness to Markham she was but calm, unadorned politeness to John North. He was never for a moment allowed to forget that she hated him. When he spoke to her the smiles disappeared and she replied in the fewest number of words consistent with courtesy. Her manner said: “You are my hated foe; but you are also my guest!”

And John throve on her displeasure and grew merrier with every proof of it.

Arrangements for the fox hunt were completed ere they left the table, and afterward they played whist before the drawing-room fire, Margaret and John against Phillip and Tom Markham. John watched Margaret’s efforts to avoid playing with him with carefully concealed amusement. In the end she defeated her own purpose.

“I’m such a frightfully poor player,” she lamented, “it would be a shame to spoil Mr. North’s pleasure by making us partners.”

“That’s just it,” cried Phillip. “You are pretty rotten, Margey, but John’s one of the crack members of the Harvard Whist Club, and so that evens it up. Come along, now.”

So Margaret accepted the inevitable and took the place opposite John, where he could look into her face every time he raised his eyes from his cards. They had foemen worthy of their trumps. Phillip was a good player, while Markham went in for whist as he went in for everything else, with a concentration and singleness of purpose that was delightful to behold and which made him a formidable antagonist. It is to be feared that Margaret purposely vindicated the reputation she had claimed. Surely, never before were so many good cards wasted, so many aces trumped, such a blind disregard of science and signals exhibited! But if her purpose was to ruffle, her partner’s temper, she won not the slightest vestige of success. John’s tranquillity remained impervious. Phillip wondered and exclaimed:

“Good heavens, Margey! What were you up to then? You’re playing fifty times worse than I ever knew you to—and that’s saying a heap!”

“Thank you, Phil, dear!”

“John will think you were raised in—in—I don’t know what—where!”

“I am very sorry,” answered Margaret very gravely, “but I warned Mr. North of what to expect.”

“Really, I think your playing is very good, Miss Ryerson,” interposed John, with equal gravity. “For my part, I am quite satisfied. And if you’re satisfied and I’m satisfied, where does Phil come in? Nowhere. Your lead, Mr. Markham.”

Now there was a bit of polite perjury that should have won the thanks and admiration of any one in Margaret’s place. Yet, for some reason, the effect on Margaret was quite the reverse of pleasing and did not soften her heart and move her to reform; on the contrary, she played worse than before and exasperated Phillip to fresh remonstrance.

“Margey! You did it again that hand!”

“Did what, Phil?”

“Why, trumped his ace!”

“Did I? Did I trump your ace, Mr. North?”

“I believe you did,” John answered calmly. “But I don’t think Phil understands your play.”

“No, hanged if I do!” muttered Phillip.

“While I do—perfectly.”

Margaret frowned suspiciously and had the grace to blush. And John saw the blush and thought it lovely and played a card that caused Tom Markham’s hands to tremble with triumph. Yet, despite all handicaps—not the least of which was his inability to keep his eyes on the game—John won out at the end, and Markham drew his long length carefully from his chair and sighed enviously.

“Gingeration, Mr. No’th, sir! I just wish I could play the game the way you can. I never saw anything like it! It’s a pleasure, sir, to be defeated by you, sir! By doggie, yes, sir!”

John sat for a full half-hour in front of the fire in his bedroom, attired only in a suit of red-and-white pajamas, and smoked his pipe and watched the flames. He didn’t always see the flames, however, and his thoughts were at least the length of the house from them. He reviewed the day’s events and grew cold at recollection of that frightful and anxious race down Pine Top, and warm at the memory of what had followed. He wondered whether he had made a mistake in “showing his hand” so early in the game, and believed he hadn’t. On its face it appeared a reckless, impossible, even frivolous thing to make a declaration of love—even an off-hand one—twenty-four hours after first meeting a woman. But John found extenuating circumstances. In the first place, it had been entirely unpremeditated. In the second place, his acquaintanceship with Margaret was not limited to twenty-four hours; he had known her ever since he had known Phillip. Corliss’ allusion to her had aroused his curiosity and sympathy and appealed to his imagination. He had fallen in love with her the moment he had seen her picture on Phillip’s mantel. His passion—not a very deep one then, perhaps—had been fed by their short correspondence and by the constant mention of her name and news of her doings doled out by Phillip. And then he had seen her in the flesh! And now it was all confirmed, established, irrevocable!

No, he didn’t believe he had hurt his chances by his impulsive words. He was not an expert in affairs of the heart. Had he ever felt the slightest desire to do so—which he never did—he could have counted his love affairs on the fingers of one hand and still, perhaps, have a thumb left untapped. He had never made a study of the pleasant art of making love, yet he had learned somehow that interest must precede affection, and had a strong suspicion that no woman can fail to feel interest in a man who has declared his love for her, no matter how indifferent to his passion she may be.

No; on the whole he was very well satisfied with his second day at Elaine. It did not occur to him as among the possibilities that Margaret could really cherish resentment against him for what he had done. She was beautiful to him in every way, and he loved her. Then why not tell her so? It was the natural thing to do, and he had done it. To be sure, she was justified in finding fault with his method; he owned to himself that he had been rather crude, almost discourteous; and on that score she was right to show displeasure. But in the end——

He knocked the ashes from his pipe and pulled himself erect, yawning cavernously. The fire was low and little chills were sporting up and down his back. He blew out the light and crawled into the four-poster.

In the end she must love him. His college career would come to an end in June; after that should come another career in which his curriculum should be Margaret and of which the degree should be Margaret’s love. But suddenly his pleasant confidence received a shock. What if there should be—was—some one else?

He sat up and blinked in consternation at the firelight. What about that other chap, that cousin? What was his name? Willis? Who the deuce was this Willis and where did he come in? He dropped his head back on the pillow. He would find out about this Nate—that was it!—Nate Willis. He would—ask Phillip—in—the morn——

Then he commenced snoring peacefully.

Sunday came and went, and Monday, and Tuesday, with untroubled skies, brisk, mellow noons and frosty nights. The ice formed hard on the little ponds and they went skating. And they shot more partridges, and rode and drove; and to John every moment was filled with pleasure. And yet his love affair progressed not at all. Strive as he might to find or beguile Margaret away from the companionship of Mrs. Ryerson or Phillip or from the mysterious duties that kept her so much of the time in that impenetrable region of the house reigned over by Aunt Cicely, he was always unsuccessful. To be sure—and here was doubtful cause for self-gratulation—Margaret’s manner toward him was what it had been of old, before she had found it necessary to hate him. But John wasn’t satisfied.

Meanwhile he had disposed of Nate Willis—or, rather, Phillip had done it for him. And no other pretender had appeared on the horizon. John found encouragement in these facts. But meanwhile, too, his stay at Elaine was already half over, for he had promised David to come to him in New York the next Sunday. He sighed dolefully and for a minute entertained the wild idea of telegraphing David that he was dead and couldn’t join him. But, as he realized with a grin the next moment, that wouldn’t do, for Davy would be certain to come down to the funeral.

The fox hunt had been highly successful. That is to say, from certain viewpoints. Margaret and Phillip and the indefatigable Colonel Brownell—who looked every minute of his sixty-eight years and rode to hounds like a youngster—had been in at the death, while John, accompanied by Tom Markham, whose courtesy and hospitality would not allow him to leave the guest behind, had plodded unexcitedly along some half-mile in the rear. John’s clothes bore streaks and large expanses of brown earth on one side, as did Ruby’s knees, that all who rode might read. John did not mind the spill over a tumble-down fence onto a frost-cracked ground, but he did mind seeing his hopes of a talk—desultory, perchance, but still a talk—with Margaret come to naught. For that is just what had happened. As soon as ever they were off Cardinal had sprung to the front of the field of some dozen horses, and John’s efforts to come up to her on Ruby were unavailing. He had urged on the mare vigourously, but she was no match for Cardinal, and the hurry accomplished only a sudden tumble of horse and rider, luckily without painful results.

The hunters rode homeward in a bunch, Colonel Brownell and two younger men from the village completely frustrating any designs John may have entertained of riding beside Margaret. He fell back on the society of Phillip and Tom Markham, and, since their route lay over the better part of three adjoining estates, learned much of interest regarding farming methods, soil qualities, cattle-grazing and land values. From a hill his companions indicated the confines of Elaine on three sides, and for the first time he began to have some conception of what the care of 1,600 acres meant. He viewed Markham with increased interest and new respect.

“Can this cattle business be made to pay, Mr. Markham?” he asked, as they rode onward toward the home farm, which was just in sight toward the north.

“Yes, sir, by doggie, Mr. No’th! But yo’ need money, sir. Yo’ got to buy when cattle are cheap an’ yo’ got to have ready cash to do it. That’s the trouble with a heap of folks ’round here, Mr. No’th; they ain’t got the cash ready to plank right down when it’s needed.”

“It’s going to pay for us, isn’t it, Tom?” asked Phillip. “You wait until I get through college and you’ll see! I’m going to make a different place of Elaine!”

John was silent, and Markham looked away and worked his long jaws hurriedly, generously decorating the roadside with tobacco juice.

“There’s most too much land here, Phil,” he said presently.

“I don’t think so, Tom; the more land the more grass, and the more grass the more cattle we can handle. Besides, it wouldn’t do to sell any part of Elaine. Why, I’d rather—rather let it grow up in timber again!”

“There’s going to be money in timber ’round here mighty soon,” said the overseer. “Everybody’s cuttin’ it down like all git out.”

“What does lumber cost around here?” asked John. Markham looked over at him gratefully and the conversation turned into new channels.

Christmas Day dawned bright and clear but colder than any since John had been there. Uncle Casper made his appearance rather late, rubbing his hands briskly, and wearing a half-frozen appearance.

“Pow’ful cold, sir, this mawnin’,” he volunteered as he laid the fire. “Ev’ything’s friz up tight; yes, sir. Reckon, though, you folkses up No’th has it a heap colder’n this, sir?”

“Yes, Uncle, we wouldn’t call this anything where I come from. I see your wood lights all right?”

“Sir? Yes, sir.”

“Oh, well, it isn’t really cold then. When it gets so that the wood freezes and won’t catch fire we call it chilly up North.”

The darky paused with a flaring pine splinter in his benumbed fingers and stared with round eyes.

“’Fore Gawd, Mister No’th!” he ejaculated finally. “I never heard tell of that. Whoo—ee! No, sir, I reckon we jus’ don’t know what cold is, sir. My nephew he works up in New Yo’k; he’s a waiter in a mons’rous big hotel up there. He done tol’ me that they fust winter he was there he come mighty nigh perishin’ with they cold; yes, sir. But, Lordie, sir, I didn’t s’pect it was like that!” He ambled out, shaking his head and muttering volubly.

When Will returned from Melville with the mail he also bore two packages, one addressed to Mrs. Ryerson and one to Margaret. When opened they divulged great, long-stemmed red roses and in the little envelopes were John’s cards; he had ordered the blossoms by mail from Washington. Margaret loved flowers, and the gift dispelled the last of her resentment toward John, a resentment which during the past two days she had experienced much difficulty in keeping alive. John surmised his complete forgiveness and was comforted. Somehow, despite that in the kitchen preparation of a big Christmas dinner was going forward, Margaret found more leisure from household duties that day than on any day since John had transgressed, and she made no efforts to avoid his society.

The mail brought letters to John and one to Phillip—at least, it resembled a letter in outward appearance. But when, in the seclusion of his room, Phillip tore it madly open, he found only a small photograph. But he didn’t seem disappointed. On the back of the picture were the words, penned in large, stylish and very illegible characters, “Phillip from Betty.” Although he kept it in the breast pocket of his jacket all day—and for many days thereafter—and referred to it surreptitiously whenever occasion allowed, it was not exhibited to any one, not even to John. The latter’s letters were from his mother and David. The former spoke encouragingly of his father’s health. The letter was written from Mentone.

John placed the check in his pocketbook and thoughtfully nibbled a corner of the letter, staring out of the hall window across the pleasant, peaceful prospect of sunny hill and valley. It was mid-morning, and the frozen crust of earth was softening under the warmth of the sun; the file of turkeys as they picked their way across the drive left three-pronged footprints on the gravel. In the trees the birds were chirping busily.

“Coming back,” John muttered. “Jove, that’s good news! And—yes, I think I can manage it!” He smiled as though well pleased with his thoughts, and opened David’s epistle. This was characteristically brief and to the point. Life had been going very slowly with the writer and he blamed it all on John’s absence. He wished the latter a Merry Christmas, and informed him that he had bought a present for him—it didn’t amount to much—and that he would have sent it if he hadn’t misplaced it somewhere.

Dinner was an event that day. The overseer was there and a certain “Uncle Bob,” a younger brother of Mrs. Ryerson, who lived in Richmond. In the evening a handful of young persons of both sexes came out from Melville and there was an informal dance, and, what pleased “Uncle Bob” much more, a monstrous bowl of punch which stood in the hall wreathed with holly and mistletoe.

John danced with Margaret as often as she would allow, and amazedly wondered why dancing had never really appealed to him before that evening. No mention was made on either side of the incident of Saturday’s ride. John understood that he had been forgiven and that Margaret had reinstated him in her good graces, but that there was to be no repetition of the offense under penalty of renewed excommunication. And to this decree John for the present bowed submissively.

About midnight the visitors left, professing great consternation at a thin veneer of snow which covered the drive, and talking muck of being snowed in on the way to town, and John and “Uncle Bob” formed themselves into a rescue party, protesting their readiness to do battle against the element with brooms and dust pans. Afterward the rescue party and Phillip and Tom Markham retired to the library to smoke. “Uncle Bob” insisted upon taking the still undepleted punch bowl with him, and at half past one John and Phillip assisted the Richmond relative to his room. Markham took himself off intensely serious and dignified, but it was noticeable that he experienced unaccustomed difficulty in climbing into his saddle.

Phillip, with the memory of that famous affair at the theatre in mind, had followed John’s example and had spared the punch.