Winter was really hard and fast here with Rose and Ruth, and they were settled doing all the winter things. Each morning there was school of course, school right at home, for not even the smallest school house broke the long line of the prairie within many miles of the Ranch. And there was plenty of outdoor play and excitement, too.

Somehow the two little girls never remembered a single thing about their wonderful adventure with Sappho and the fairy except when they were alone. Just as soon as Marmie or any one else came near, every bit of the memory of it floated out of their heads. But they would talk of it to each other eagerly. And one afternoon, as they sat together on the big settee, Rose suddenly wondered whether the fairy were not coming to visit them again some fine time.

“Golly, I do wish she’d come again, Ruth! There must be lots of other places to go to through the Magic Gate, and lots of other little girls to play with. Do you think she’s forgotten all about us?”

Ruth had just opened her mouth to reply when she had to open it even wider with surprise, for who should speak up but the fairy herself, in that darling voice of hers, like the chiming of tiny crystal bells:

“Forgotten you? Nonsense. The memory of a fairy is the strongest thing you can meet in a whole year of un-re-mit-ted seeking. But I’m very busy to-day, and we must hurry right off—what do you say to paying Little Women a visit?”

“What! Meg and Beth and Amy and... and JO?”

The fairy laughed at the sound of the way they said it, both together, and both almost speechless with delight. Next instant Rose and Ruth both felt her take one of their hands, and shut their eyes just as she told them too, her voice dying softly away like a breeze in a quaking aspen.

Then came again the rushing feeling, the sensation of a little fall, a slight shock, and suddenly both girls found themselves running, clutching tightly to strong hands quite as big as their own... not fairy’s hands. There was a joyous peal of laughter, and an eager voice cried:

“That was good. How you can run! Just as fast as I do, and Meg is always calling me a Tomboy....”

They opened their eyes, and found themselves grasping each a hand of a girl no older than themselves, a brown-skinned, clear-eyed girl, with a roguish light playing over her face, flushed with the exercise. Her dark chestnut hair hung in two braids from under a funny little round hat, and her skirts, full and voluminous to a remarkable degree, reached almost to her ankles. They were of some grey woollen goods, trimmed with scarlet braid in quite an intricate design. A little black jacket with sleeves wide at the bottom and a cunning turndown collar was also trimmed with braid, black this time. Altogether, the two girls thought they had never seen a quainter, more fascinating costume.

“It’s Jo,” exclaimed Rose, and threw her arms round their new friend’s neck with a shout of joy.

Jo wriggled away, looking embarrassed.

“Mustn’t kiss,” she muttered. “Amy and Beth won’t mind, though,” she added quickly. “Come on in, they are all waiting for us.”

The girls found that they were standing on a sidewalk opposite a little garden gate that opened on a straight path leading to a pretty, gabled wooden cottage snuggled under big trees. As Jo spoke she swung wide the gate, and the three hurried up to the porch. As they set foot on the top step the door opened, and Jo’s three sisters appeared, beckoning.

“Come on—hurry. Isn’t it cold, though!”

Rose and Ruth felt as though it were not the first time by many that they had passed through the hospitable door and scampered down the chilly hallway into the big, comfortable room with its coal fire blazing red-faced at one end, its prints and photographs on the walls, its easy chairs and sofa, its winter roses and geraniums in the windows. They felt, indeed, very much at home, and completely forgot how it happened that they were there at all. Evidently they were expected, for Meg asked what had made them so late.

“We ran, anyway,” Jo told her. “Rose could beat me, I believe. Don’t you wish we were boys, Rose, and could run real races?”

“Take off your wraps,” said Amy. “Oh, Ruth, you’ve a new dress!”

It was undoubtedly quite new. Ruth looked down at herself with astonishment and delight. Amy was helping her off with a long cloak of heavy blue cloth, and under that Ruth saw her full skirts spreading out deliciously—pale grey with pale blue bows of ribbon looping up the overskirt. Her waist was grey, with more blue bows and ribbon braiding, and she had on the loveliest white batiste undersleeves that buttoned close to her wrists. It was too fascinating.

She whirled about, while her skirts bobbed and swung, and there was Rose in a dress just as quaint and pretty and absurd, only it was decorated with pink bows and braiding.

“They are both new,” she cried. “Oh, what fun it is!”

“I like pretty clothes, don’t you?” said Amy, folding away Ruth’s cloak nicely. “Jo doesn’t care—says clothes are a nuisance, and if she had only been a boy she’d never have had to think of them at all.”

“It does seem a pity Jo wasn’t born a boy,” Beth remarked, “since we haven’t one in the family, and she wants to be one so badly.”

“It’s one of the ‘indescrutable’ things that happen,” Amy finished, and then looked troubled as the rest shouted with laughter.

“Never mind,” gurgled Rose, “it wouldn’t be Amy unless she made those perfectly scrumptious mistakes.”

“Well, girls, Hannah’s got a little lunch ready for us, and if we are to get to the river in time we must start soon,” Meg admonished them.

“To the river?” Rose and Ruth both wanted to know.

“Yes—the skating party, you know. There are to be big bonfires and lots of fun, and the ice is perfect.”

Just then Hannah opened the door.

“It’s time ye was eatin’, children,” she told them.

It was a jolly little lunch, where every one talked together. Mrs. Marsh was at a neighbour’s helping in the care of a new baby, and Mr. Marsh had gone to Boston on some business connected with the great slave question.

“You know, people say we may go to war over this business of keeping slaves,” Meg said, with sudden gravity. “But that seems too horrible.”

“If I were a man I’d like to go to war,” Jo announced, with flashing eyes.

Rose and Ruth were conscious of a hazy recollection. Surely there had been—but they couldn’t feel certain.

“Well, thank heaven, you can’t, Jo,” sighed Meg, “but I’m awfully afraid that father will. As chaplain of his regiment, you know.”

A frightened hush spread over the little crowd of girls, and then Beth, in her soft voice, spoke the right word:

“We’ll be sorry—but a glorious kind of sorry,” she said. “Father does what is right, and makes us all love it.”

“So he does,” smiled Meg, “and you are a sweet child, Beth.”

And then they were all laughing again, and war seemed far away, while good things to eat were very close at hand. Hannah had made corn bread, such cornbread, and there was a wonderful sort of apple pudding-pie that Amy hailed joyously as “pandowdy” and which Rose and Ruth found delectable.

And then it was time to hurry into one’s outdoor clothes again, and make for the river, where the whole village was to skate that afternoon.

Meg decided to take Amy and Beth with her by way of the highroad, but Jo asked the two guests if they wouldn’t like to go through the woods with her.

“It’s such fun breaking through the drifts, and I see you’ve your arctics. They have tramped a kind of path, so it won’t be too hard for us, and the woods must look splendid.”

So it was agreed that the strangers should go that way, to see the woods, and have the excitement of a real tramp through the snow, while Meg saw the two little girls safe. They would meet at the river.

What fun it was! Rose and Ruth could not believe that they were really following Jo off the road and up a path under pines all powdered with snow, yet that’s just what they did. How fine and bracing the air was, and how pink the three pairs of cheeks! They went along, chattering madly, and presently Jo confided that she was writing a story.

“It’s most thrilling,” she said, “all about two lovers in a high tower, and a terrible old uncle who isn’t really their uncle but an impostor. And in the end he’s found dead with his hand on the knob of the secret door where all the money is hidden——”

The two girls listened, gasping. What a gorgeous plot!

And now they were in the heart of the woods. The trees crowded close, the snow was deeper than was easy to get through. Ruth floundered in spots, laughing, and Jo took her hand to help her.

“It’s drifted in a little,” she said. “When we get through this dip it won’t be so deep.”

They struggled on, slipping over their boot tops, and though the snow was dry, Rose noticed that her voluminous skirts were getting heavy. She longed for the sensible clothes they wore at home. Suddenly a sound like some one sobbing struck her ears. She was a step or two ahead of Jo and her sister.

“Do you hear that, girls?” she asked, looking around anxiously. “I thought I heard some one crying.”

“Crying!” exclaimed Jo. “Perhaps it’s a fox or——”

But at that moment the sound broke out again, and crying it undoubtedly was. They hurried on, a little scared, turned a bend, and there, sure enough, huddled in the snow at the foot of a huge evergreen, sat a small, a very small boy.

“Gee-willikins!” grunted Rose, while Jo rushed forward, and Ruth stared, white and frightened. She was very young.

“He’s alive safe enough,” said Jo, in her deepest voice, as the small boy started wailing in earnest at sight of her. Rose joined her, and the two bent over the youngster, who looked up at them, pale and with his face streaked with tears. “Poor little thing! How on earth did he get here, d’you suppose?”

“He must be lost,” hazarded Rose, rubbing the boy’s hands, that were almost frozen. Ruth had come up by this time, and the three began to question the child all together. He only stared in response, but when Jo drew a cookie out of her pocket, he smiled faintly, and began to munch it.

“Poor baby, he’s famished. How did you get here all alone, little man?” And Jo bent over him, wrapping part of her cloak over the shivering little body.

He gurgled an unintelligible reply, but stopped crying.

Rose looked at Jo. “He’d have probably died out here if we hadn’t come this way,” she whispered. “What are we going to do with him?”

“We’ve got to get him home somehow,” Jo answered. “I wonder if he can walk.” She turned to the boy, and smiled encouragingly. “Can you come a little way with us, sonny?”

His eyes filled with tears again, but he nodded.

“Tell you what, girls,” said Jo, briskly, “I’ll try to carry him a bit. You two go ahead and trample down the snow as much as you can, and I’ll follow. It’s like a story, isn’t it?”

She got the little lad up, wrapping her cloak round him, and holding him snuggled close. He put his arms round her neck, and smiled.

“Dear little cold thing,” Jo muttered hoarsely, and then began to struggle back home as well as she might. But very soon she had to sit down and rest.

“I’ll take him now, Jo,” said Rose. “We can do it somehow, turn and turn about.”

And so they did, but it was awfully hard work. The youngster fell asleep, shivering still, for he was wet with melted snow, and his torn shoes showed bare toes. A forlorn mite!

The skating party was forgotten as the three girls struggled homeward through the drifts. Pretty nearly exhausted themselves, they finally reached the cottage. The lamp was lighted in the living room, and the light streamed hospitably down across the path.

Mrs. Marsh met them at the door.

“What is it, girls? Why, what little boy—the poor child! Jo, run and tell Hannah to get some milk heated.”

Taking the child in her own motherly arms, Mrs. Marsh hurried into the room and sitting down close beside the fire, began taking off his wet, half-frozen rags, while the girls told her breathlessly how they had found him sobbing under the evergreen. He seemed very drowsy, and looked pitifully white and thin in the glow of the fire.

“Jo rubbed his hands and wrapped him in her own cloak; she must be frozen herself,” said Rose, “but she wouldn’t hear of letting me do it. Oh, dear, is he going to die?”

Ruth began crying. The little boy did look so badly.

“Hush, dears. Of course he isn’t. Why, he’ll be fat and smiling before I get through with him,” laughed Mrs. Marsh. At this moment Jo, followed by Hannah, came in with the hot milk. Hannah rushed off to get a woollen nightgown, while Rose crumbled some bread into the bowl of milk, and Mrs. Marsh fed the half awake child spoonful by spoonful.

“Luckily he isn’t frost-bitten,” she murmured. “Jo, dear, get the crib down from the garret with Hannah’s help, and make it up warmly in the little room off mine. I’ll get him to sleep, and then we’ll try and find out where he belongs.”

Bathed, fed and wrapped in the snug nightie, the little boy looked, as Jo said, like a fairy changeling. Tucked into the crib, he immediately fell sound asleep.

“Put on your wraps, girls, and we’ll run down to the village and find out what we can,” said Mrs. Marsh. “How fortunate it was that you went that way, Jo, with your little friends. But I fear Meg must be worried at your not meeting her. We’ll go to the river first, and see what we can discover there.”

The river made a fine sight. A broad stretch had been chosen for the skaters, and along the banks huge bonfires were waving in the wind and filling the air with the sweet breath of burning wood. Dark shapes flitted over the ice, or crowded round the fires, and a gay medley of shouts, laughter and talk rose upward.

Meg and the two children were soon found, and Meg heaved a relieved sigh when she saw her mother and sister and Rose and Ruth hurrying toward them.

The news was quickly told, and other interested persons gathered round. Presently word went about that a Mrs. Gillig, a widow who lived more or less on charity, had been seeking her only child since early in the afternoon. Some one ran to fetch her, and presently she and Mrs. Marsh were headed toward the Marsh cottage.

“The dear child, he just wanted to help me,” the widow kept repeating. “Told me this morning, he did, that he was going to find a fairy as would make things easy for me. Little attention I paid to his talk, bless his poor heart, and so off he goes, and it’s near getting killed he’s been.... Heaven be merciful!”

She thanked the girls tearfully before going with Mrs. Marsh.

“It’s a hard job you must have had bringing him back,” she said, “and many wouldn’t have been brave enough and sensible enough. Fortunate it was that ye went by when ye did, or where’d my little boy be this minute?”

“Poor thing,” said Jo, as they watched the two women hurrying away, Mrs. Marsh giving her arm to the widow. “I shouldn’t wonder, you know, if after all her boy did find a fairy, because mother is a good fairy if ever there was one.”

Mrs. Marsh had insisted that the girls stay behind to enjoy the fun, for there was to be a supper later, and the skating was perfect. So they put on their skates, while the young people of the village crowded round and were introduced, and off they went, each with a boy, while the lights shone and the stars began to come out, and spirits sang to the tinkling of the skates. It was splendid.

Presently they gathered at one of the fires. Amy, her cheeks glowing, announced that she had never before been at such an “auspicatious” occasion. Meg and Beth were busy unpacking a huge lunch basket. Jo came skating up, all alone, sturdy and independent, the fire reflected in her dark eyes.

“I’m going to write a story about that little boy,” she confided, “and call it ‘The Waif of the Woods.’ Or perhaps we can make a play of it, and all of us act it. Think of the snow-laden scene and—oh, Beth, plum-cake!” With a squeal of delight Jo plunged to help in the unpacking, upsetting a pile of tin plates that went rolling down the bank and over the ice in every direction.

“Oh, Jo, see what you’ve done,” cried everybody, while Jo began frantically to chase the bounding plates. Rose and Ruth ran laughing to help her....

“Come along to supper, girls,” said a familiar voice. “You ought to be hungry after your day in the snow.”

Rose and Ruth caught their breath. There in the open doorway stood their mother, the light from the hall lamp streaming round her. The fire was burning low, but a log that had rolled out on the hearth spread a smell of burning wood through the room. As they slipped off the settee, feeling a little dazed at the sudden transition, they heard a tiny chuckle....