Perhaps had Stephen known what was in store for him on the morrow he might not have slept so soundly. As it was, he and Dick had to be called three times before they opened their eyes on the Thanksgiving sunshine. A heavy frost had fallen during the night, touching the trees with splendor and transforming the brown earth to a jewelled sweep of gems that flashed like brilliants in the golden light. The boys scrambled into their clothes and, ruddy from a cold shower, descended to the dining room where amid the fragrance of steaming coffee the family were just sitting down to breakfast.

"Well, what is up for to-day, boys?" inquired Mrs. Tolman, after the more formal greetings were over. "What are you planning to do with Dick, Stephen?"

"We're going skating over to the Hollow if the ice is any good," was the prompt response. "It was fine yesterday and unless somebody has smashed it all up it ought to be good to-day."

"That plan sounds rather nice, doesn't it, Jane?" Doris suggested to her roommate. "Why don't we go, too?"

"I'd like nothing better," was the answer.

"The youngsters have sketched a very alluring program," Mr. Ackerman said. "If I had any skates I should be tempted to join them. I have not been on the ice in years but in my day I used to be quite a hockey player."

"Oh, do come, Mr. Ackerman!" cried Steve eagerly. "If you used to skate it will all come back to you. It is like swimming, you know; once you have learned you never forget how."

"But I've nothing to skate with," laughed the New Yorker.

"Oh, we can fix you up with skates all right, if you really want to go," Mr. Tolman said. "I have a couple of pairs and am sure you could manage to use one of them."

"So you are a skater, are you, Tolman?" the capitalist observed, with surprise.

"Oh, I am nothing great," Mr. Tolman protested, "but I have always enjoyed sports and muddled along at them. Coventry is quite a distance from Broadway, you see, and therefore we must get our recreation in other ways."

"It is a darn sight better than anything New York has to offer," commented the other man soberly. "Good wholesome out-of-door exercise is not to be mentioned in the same breath with a hot theater where a picture show is a makeshift for something better. Give me fresh air and exercise every time!"

"Well, since that is the way you feel about it we can comply with your request," Mr. Tolman rejoined, with a smile. "If you do not mind hobbling back to New York lame as a cart-horse you can certainly have your wish, for we have the ice, the skates, plenty of coats and sweaters—everything necessary. Suppose we all start for the Hollow at ten o'clock. It is a mile walk but as we are having a late dinner we shall still have a long morning."

"That will suit me all right," returned Mr. Ackerman.

"By the way, Henry," interrupted Mrs. Tolman, addressing her husband, "Havens is waiting to see you. He has some message for you."

"Where is he?"

"In the hall."

"Ask Mary to tell him to go into my den. I'll be there in a minute."

What a merry party it was that chatted and laughed there in the warmth of the sunny dining room! For the time being the elders dropped their cares and became as young in spirit as the boys and girls. Jokes, stories and good-humored banter passed back and forth until with one accord everybody rose from the table and sauntered into the library where a great blaze of logs glowed and crackled.

"If you will excuse me I will see what Havens wants," remarked Mr. Tolman, as he lighted his cigar. "Probably the garage people have unearthed some more repairs that must be made on that car. They seem to have a faculty for that sort of thing. Every day they discover something new the matter with it. I shall have a nice little bill by the time they finish."

Shrugging his shoulders, he passed into the hall. It was more than half an hour before he returned and when he did a close observer would have noticed that his face had lost its brightness and that the gaiety with which he took up the conversation with his guests was forced and unnatural. However, he tried resolutely to banish his irritation, whatever its cause. He went up to the attic with Mr. Ackerman, where the two searched out skates, woolen gloves and sweaters; he jested with Doris and Jane Harden; he challenged Dick to a race across the frozen ground. But beneath his lightness lingered a grave depression which betokened to those who knew him best that something was wrong. Yet he was evidently determined the cloud should not obtrude itself and spoil the happiness of the day. Probably some business annoyance that could not be remedied had arisen; or possibly Havens had given notice. Such contingencies were of course to be deplored but as they could not be helped, why let them ruin the entire holiday?

Therefore nobody heeded Mr. Tolman's mood which was so well controlled that his guests were unconscious of it, and the group of skaters swung along over the frosty fields with undiminished merriment. The Hollow for which they were bound lay in a deserted stone quarry where a little arm of the river had penetrated the barrier of rocks and, gradually flooding the place, made at one end a deep pool; from this point the water spread itself over the meadows in a large, shallow pond. Had the spot been nearer the town it would doubtless have been overrun with skaters; but as it was isolated, and there was a larger lake near the center of the village, few persons took the trouble to seek out this remote stretch of ice.

This morning it lay desolate like a gleaming mirror, not a human being marring its solitude.

"We shall have the place all to ourselves!" exclaimed Mr. Ackerman. "There will be no spectators to watch me renew my youth, thank goodness!"

Quickly the skates were strapped on and the young people shot out into the sunshine and began to circle about. More cautiously Mr. Tolman and his guest followed.

"I wouldn't go into the quarry," shouted Mr. Tolman, "for I doubt if it has been cold enough yet to freeze the ice very solidly there. There are liable to be air holes where the river makes in."

"Oh, we fellows have skated in the quarry millions of times, Dad," Stephen protested. "It is perfectly safe."

"There is no way of telling whether it is or not," was the response, "so suppose for to-day we keep away from it."

"But—"

"Oh, don't argue, Stevie," called Doris. "If Dad doesn't want us to go there that's enough, isn't it?"

"But half the fun is making that turn around the rocks," grumbled Stephen, in a lower tone. "I don't see why Dad is such a fraid-cat. I know this pond better than he does and—"

"If your father says not to skate there that ought to go with you," cut in Dick. "He doesn't want you to—see? Whether it is safe or not has nothing to do with it."

"But it's so silly!" went on Stephen. "Why—"

"Oh, cut it out! Can it!" ejaculated the East Side lad. "Your dad says No and he's the boss."

The ungracious retort Steve offered was lost amid the babel of laughter that followed, and the skaters darted away up the pond. Indeed, one could not long have cherished ill humor amid such radiant surroundings. There was too much sunshine, too much sparkle in the clear air; too much jollity and happiness. Almost before he realized it Stephen's irritation had vanished and he was speeding across the glassy surface of the ice as gay as the gayest of the company.

He never could explain afterward just how it happened that he found himself around the bend of the quarry and sweeping with the wind toward its farther end. He had not actually formulated the intention of slipping away from the others and invading this forbidden spot. Nevertheless, there he was alone in the tiny cove with no one in sight. What followed was all over in a moment,—the breaking ice and the plunge into the frigid water. The next he knew he was fighting with all his strength to prevent himself from being drawn beneath the jagged, crumbling edge of the hole. To clamber out was impossible, for every time he tried the thin ice would break afresh under his hands and submerge him again in the bitter cold of the moving stream. Over and over he tried to pull himself to safety but without success. Then suddenly he felt himself becoming numb and helpless. His teeth chattered and he could no longer retain his hold on the frail support that was keeping his head above water. He was slipping back into the river. He was not going to be able to get out!

With a piercing scream he made one last desperate lunge forward, and again the ice that held him broke and the water dashed over his ears and mouth.

When he next opened his eyes it was to find himself in his own bed with a confusion of faces bending over him.

"There!" he heard some one say in a very small, far-away voice. "He is coming to himself now, thank God! It was chiefly cold and fright. He is safe now, Tolman. Don't you worry! You'd better go and get off some of your wet clothing, or you will catch your death."

Mr. Ackerman was speaking.

"Yes, Henry, do go!" pleaded his wife.

As Stephen looked about him in the vague, groping uncertainty of returning consciousness his glance fell upon his father who stood beside his pillow, shivering nervously. He put out his hand and touched the dripping coat sleeve.

"What—" began he weakly.

Then with a rush it all came back to him and everything was clear. He had been drowning and his father had plunged into the water to save him!

A sob rose in his throat and he caught the elder man's hand between both of his.

"Oh, Dad," he exclaimed, "I've been so rotten to you—so mean—so cowardly. I'm ashamed to—"

"Don't talk about it now, son. I know."

"You know what I did?"

"Yes."

"But—" the boy paused bewildered.

"Don't talk any more about it now, Stevie," pleaded his mother.

"But I've got to know," said the lad. "Can't you see that—"

"Let me talk with him alone a moment," suggested Mr. Tolman in an undertone. "He is all upset and he won't calm down until he has this thing off his mind. Leave me here with him a little while. I'll promise that he does not tire himself."

The doctor, Mr. Ackerman and Mrs. Tolman moved across the room toward the window.

"You asked how I knew, son," began his father with extreme gentleness. "I didn't really know. I just put two and two together. There was the scratched machine and the gasoline gone—both of which facts puzzled me not a little. But the proof that clinched it all and made me certain of what had happened came to me this morning when Havens brought me an old red sweater and some school papers of Bud Taylor's that the men who were overhauling the car found under the seat. In an instant the whole thing was solved."

"You knew before we went skating then?"

"Yes."

"And—and—you jumped into the water after me just the same."

Mr. Tolman's voice trembled:

"You are my son and I love you no matter what you may do."

"Oh, Dad, I'm so sorry!" sobbed the boy. "I wanted to tell you—I meant to. It was just that I was too much of a coward. I was so ashamed of what I had done that I hadn't the nerve. After it was over it all seemed so wrong. I knew you would be angry—"

"Rather say sorry, son."

"Well, sorry. And now that you have been so white to me I'm more ashamed still."

"There, there, my boy, we will say no more about it," his father declared. "You and your conscience have probably had a pretty bitter battle and I judge you have not been altogether happy since your adventure. People who do wrong never are. It is no fun to carry your fault to bed with you and find it waiting when you wake up in the morning."

"You bet it isn't!" replied the lad, with fervor. "But can't I do something now to make good, Dad?"

Mr. Tolman checked an impulsive protest and after a moment responded gravely:

"We will see. Perhaps you would like to earn something toward doing over the car."

"Yes! Yes! I would!"

"Well, all that can be arranged later. We—"

"Henry," broke in Mrs. Tolman, "you must go this instant and get into some dry clothes. You are chilled through. The doctor says Stephen is going to be none the worse for his ducking and that he can come down stairs to dinner after he has rested a little longer. So our Thanksgiving party is not to be spoiled, after all. In fact, I believe we shall have more to give thanks for than we expected," concluded she, making an unsteady attempt to speak lightly.

"I think so, too," echoed her husband.

"And so do I!" added Stephen softly, as he exchanged an affectionate smile with his father.