Jean was on her knees bending over her steamer trunk. On either side of her were huge piles of clothes and she was having great difficulty in choosing what to take with her. It was Tuesday just after supper, and Jean had decided to devote the evening to her packing, for she was to start at noon the next day. Marjorie Remington had offered to help her pack and although Jean felt that she had done it more to see her clothes and hear what she was going to do in New York than to render her any real assistance she had not declined her offer. She did not wish to incur Marjorie's ill-will any more than was necessary, for already several little things had been said and done which hurt Jean more than she was willing to admit. And not only against Jean had Marjorie made her unkind remarks but against Elizabeth as well, and Jean felt that Marjorie availed herself of every opportunity to prejudice her against her room-mate.

Marjorie had been exceedingly careless of her own behavior of late, and after the Harvard-Yale game had stayed in town all night at her aunt's without first gaining permission to do so. She was severely reprimanded for this and warned that a second offense would not be tolerated. And, although no one knew it, she had received two faculty warnings, but had made up her mind to ignore them.

A little after eight o'clock she hurried into Jean's room exclaiming, "Sorry, Jean, but I can't help you pack after all, Jack's just come out to call. I hadn't the least idea he would come to-night, but he's such an uncertain quantity I never can tell what he's going to do next. However, he's so good-looking and such a dear I can forgive him for 'most everything. Hope you'll have a gay time in the big city. Wish I were going over, too, but I've decided to go to my aunt's. You see, Jack isn't going home, either, for he only has the day and he's promised to give me one good time if I'll stay in Boston. Here comes that pious room-mate of yours. Positively, she gets on my nerves more every day. I don't believe she's half as innocent as she pretends to be, either, and I wouldn't trust all my perfectly good things to her the way you do. Good-by," and as she left the room Elizabeth entered.

"Oh, Jean, please let me help you with your packing. When do you ever expect to wear all these clothes? There's enough for a month instead of a few days. I've never seen half of these before."

"No, some of them haven't been out of my trunk before. I've been saving them for this visit, as I expect to be on the go every minute I'm away and I'll need plenty of good-looking things. Would you take this chiffon, or does it look too soiled?"

Before Elizabeth could answer there came a knock at the door and a telegram was handed to Jean. When she opened it she could hardly believe her eyes. It was from Tom and said:

"Visit postponed. Aunt Sarah very sick. Stay at college.
"Tom."

She did not say a word, but passed the telegram over to Elizabeth to read and then sank helplessly down on the floor beside her trunk. When astonishment had given place to anger, she burst out, "Did you ever hear of anything like that? Why did Aunt Sarah take Thanksgiving of all times in the year to be sick? To think I've been waiting all this time to go on and visit her and see Tom and have the time of my life and then have to give it all up and stay here with the rest of lonely freshmen! Pleasant prospect, isn't it?"

"Oh, Jean, I'm very sorry it's happened. Of course it's a disappointment. But there will be a lot of the other girls here, and you're all invited down to Miss Emerson's for dinner. It won't be like New York with your own people, but I'm sure she will do everything she can to make the day a pleasant one for you. I almost hate to ask you, but would you rather go home with me to Newburgh than stay here at college? I haven't very much to offer you in the way of good times, but I should love to have you see my home and know my people if you won't mind putting up with all our inconveniences. I can show you real old New England country life in the winter, for they have snow there already, and it's been good skating, too. There are hardly any young people, and what there are will not be at all like those you have always known. You won't need any of those fine clothes you had planned to take to New York, but you can put a few waists and a thick dress and sweater into your suit-case and come along without any more preparations. It's very cold up there, so you want to take plenty of warm clothes. I have planned to start from the North Station at four o'clock, but we won't reach home until late in the evening, as we have to drive a good seven miles. There is no station at Newburgh, but we leave the train at Wilton Junction and probably Brother will meet us there to drive us home in the sleigh. Don't decide to-night, Jean; think it over and tell me in the morning. I think I'll go to bed early to-night. How good it seems not to have any lessons to prepare! Before I go, can I help you put away your clothes?"

"Yes, if you will, Elizabeth, and I sha'n't wait until to-morrow to accept your invitation. I am terribly disappointed not to go to my aunt's, but I think it will be splendid to go home with you. I've never been sleighing or skating in my life, and all I know about it is what I've read in books. Thank you so much for wanting me to go with you. Will you put this box in on my dresser if you're going into the bedroom?"

The two girls worked rapidly together, and soon had cleared away the piles of clothes Jean had deposited upon the floor. They felt so in the mood for cleaning that they dusted and put to rights both rooms so that they might look presentable during their absence. As Jean was dusting her dresser she opened the box which she had asked Elizabeth to place there and after examining its contents carefully she said, "Elizabeth, have you seen anything of my coral beads? They aren't here with my other things, and I'm sure I had them in the box. I wore them this afternoon to Bertha Merrill's tea and I thought I put them in here when I changed my dress. Perhaps they're mixed up with some of the things we put in the trunk. I think I'll look around a little to-night, for they must be somewhere in the room."

Both girls searched everywhere they knew of, but they could find no trace of the beads. "It's the strangest thing I ever heard of," said Jean. "We can't do much until after vacation, for every one will go away to-morrow. I'll put a notice on our bulletin board and report the loss to—who's the proctor on our floor this week?"

"Grace Hooper," said Elizabeth.

"Well, I'll run down to her room a minute and tell her about it and then I'll be ready to turn in."

When she returned she told Elizabeth that Grace Hooper and Mary Boynton thought it best to say or do nothing about the loss of the beads until college began again Monday morning. Perhaps by that time the beads would have been found and they would be saved the unpleasant duty of investigation.

When the two girls stepped into the train at the North Station the next day they found it crowded to the utmost with happy travelers returning home for the holidays. There did not seem to be any seats together, so they stood their suit-cases at one end of the car and perched upon them to wait until some of the passengers should alight at the first station. Several of the college girls they knew were homeward bound on the same train and joined them, using their bulging cases as seats. It began to snow lightly soon after the train started, and as they went farther north they found evidences of recent snow storms, and when they reached Wilton Junction they found it piled up in great drifts round the station.

As they alighted from the train they looked in vain for "Brother Dick" or Dr. Fairfax. "Don't be alarmed, Jean, I never know when any one will meet me. You see, doctors are likely to be called out any time miles and miles, and when you've got only one horse on the place you get used to waiting. Let's go into the station and keep warm, and for excitement we can get weighed or read the time-tables on the wall."

Huddled round a great old-fashioned stove in the center of the room were a dozen or so people waiting for belated trains. They forgot the cold or disappointment at missing their train when they saw the two girls. It was not often they had such a good-looking stranger as Jean Cabot to gaze upon. She did make a picture there in her dingy surroundings with her long fur coat and little fur turban with two iridescent quills stuck jauntily through the front. The blackness of the fur as it rested against her hair intensified its golden hue and the fair whiteness of her skin.

From one corner where he apparently had been dozing arose a long-legged, lackadaisical-looking fellow, who strolled up to where the two girls were standing.

"Why, how d'ye do, Miss Fairfax. Home for the holidays?" was his greeting, and all the time he was stealing glances at Jean. Elizabeth coolly replied to his question and introduced him to Jean. He hardly had time for more than a few casual remarks before Elizabeth heard some sleigh-bells and going to the door saw her father outside in his little low sleigh. "May I call on you before you return to college?" asked the young man as he carried their heavy suit-cases to the waiting sleigh.

"Why, yes, if you care to," replied Elizabeth as she and Jean stepped up to the sleigh.

"Father, I've brought my room-mate, Jean Cabot, home with me for the holidays. She expected to go to New York to visit her aunt, but at the last moment she had to give it up, as her aunt was sick. I know you are always glad to welcome one more, so I invited her up here."

"Very glad to know you, Jean. Hope you'll excuse my not getting out to help you," said Dr. Fairfax, "but I'm so bundled up I don't believe I could ever get back again if I once got out. It's been a terribly cold day up our way, and I drove ten miles the other side of our hill before I came down for you. I've been over to Judge Morton's, Elizabeth, to see his mother. She's a pretty sick woman, and I almost doubt if I can pull her through this time."

"Oh, that accounts for Franklin Morton's being at Wilton Junction. What a contemptible snob that fellow is! I've seen him hundreds of times driving through the village, and have known him ever since he first spent his summers at Gorham, but he's never spoken five words to me until to-night when he saw the prospect of meeting Jean. Did you hear him ask if he might call on us? I imagine him in our little farmhouse! Well, I guess we needn't borrow trouble, for he would never come, especially as his grandmother is very sick.

"Now, Father, what about Dick? I hoped he would come down with you to the station."

"Lucky he didn't now, isn't it, Jean, for how could we four have ridden home in this little sleigh? Pretty tight squeeze as it is. To tell you the truth, dear, I'm a little worried about Richard's case, for he doesn't seem to get his strength back as I wish he would. Typhoid does pull any one down so, it's a hard fight to get back again. He's been a wonderfully patient boy through it all, but I think sometimes he gets discouraged about himself, although he never says anything to us. I don't know what he would do without your letters, girl. I verily believe he knows them all by heart, and he talks about your friends there as though they were his own. He'll feel right at home with this young lady here, for next to you, Elizabeth, Jean has been of most interest to him, and he's wondered so many times if he could ever see her.

"Here, Jean, is where we begin to climb our hill at the top of which is our little village. I think now that it has stopped snowing the moon will soon appear, and if it does you will see one of the finest winter pictures I know of. I ride for miles and miles around this whole country, but I know of no more beautiful views than this hill affords us in winter as well as in summer.

"See, there's the moon peeping behind that cloud now."

Slowly the old horse pulled his heavy load up the long hill, and before the ascent was half made the full moon was shining brightly, shedding its beauty over the snow-covered country. Gaunt trees threw long black shadows across the tiny thread of a road, while here and there were deserted buildings almost hidden from view by the great drifts of snow. There was hardly a sound but the tinkle of their own sleigh-bells and the crunching of the runners on the snow. Peace and quiet and beauty were everywhere, as far as the eye could reach.

Jean could hardly believe her eyes. Here was something she had read about but never seen, and the wonder of it threw its spell over her. Indeed, all three became gradually silent, apparently engrossed with their own thoughts, the doctor wondering how his aged patient was rallying under the treatment he had suggested, Elizabeth, deeply troubled by her father's words about her brother, and Jean lost in contemplation of the strange and wonderful scene before her.

Jean was the first to break the silence. "Oh, Elizabeth, how I wish Miss Hooper were riding with us to-night! About two weeks ago when I was walking with her through the Willows she said she wanted me to go there with her again when there was snow on the ground and a moon, for it is so beautiful. But I am sure nothing could be as wonderful as this hill to-night. I wish I could give her a good description of its beauty."

"Why don't you write to her while you are here and tell her about it? I know she would appreciate it, for she told me she was to stay at Ashton over the holidays."

"I think I will write to her to-night and tell her all about this wonderful ride. It seems now as if I could ride on forever, but I see lights over there, so we must be approaching the village. Why, it seems as though we were on top of the world up here!"

"We'll be home in half an hour, Jean; our house is right over there," and Elizabeth pointed to a little group of lighted houses at her right.

It did not take long to reach the rambling old farmhouse where Fairfaxes had lived for the last hundred and fifty years. The front door was opened as the sleigh turned into the yard and a fresh young voice rang out:

"Welcome home, Sister! Hurry up and come in, for I am tired of waiting for you. I thought you'd never get here."

The doctor warned the owner of the voice not to stand longer in the cold, and so he disappeared from view. It did not take the girls long to get into the house and reach the blazing fire in the huge fireplace. Mrs. Fairfax greeted them cordially and then brother and sister were in each others' arms. Then in a moment Elizabeth introduced Jean, and after one look at her Richard burst out, "You're just as I thought you'd be. Wishes do come true. All the afternoon I've been wishing you'd come up here on our hilltop with Sister to visit us instead of going to New York to visit your aunt. Now take off your things and let's have supper."

When the doctor came into the living-room it was the signal to repair to the dining-room, where a steaming supper awaited them. Jean thought she had never tasted anything as good in all her life, and as the cold ride had whetted her ordinarily good appetite she did justice to everything Mrs. Fairfax had prepared. As often as she dared she stole glances at Richard Fairfax and she thought she had never before seen such an attractive although pathetic face. It was deathly white, with almost perfect features, but one could never forget the eyes. They were deep-set and dark and brilliant, but when he spoke or was interested when some one else was speaking they fairly seemed to flash fire.

The conversation at table was general, and when they arose Dick suggested that they sit round the fireplace in the living-room and he would draw the couch up and lie upon it, for he was much more comfortable there than in the hard, stiff-backed chairs. Mrs. Fairfax and Elizabeth went into the kitchen to wash the dishes and make the last preparations for the morrow's dinner, while Jean and Richard and Dr. Fairfax made themselves comfortable before the blazing wood fire.

"Let's not have a light at first, Father," said Richard; "I love the firelight best and I think Jean will, too, after she sees how nice it is. Now, Father, will you please recite us your poem about the firelight?"

In his pleasing, deep-toned voice Dr. Fairfax gave the simple two-versed poem he had written on the firelight, and when he finished Dick pleaded, "Oh, don't stop, Father, please give us all my favorites, it's just the night for poetry." And one poem followed another until the doctor insisted that it was some one else's turn.

"Now, Jean," said Richard, "won't you give us something you have learned at college?"

"Oh, I can't. I don't know any poems. I've never learned them."

"What, never learned poetry? Don't you love it? Why, I think there's nothing in all the world to compare with it. I spend hours and hours reading my favorite poets until I know their best poems by heart. I wish I could write myself. I mean to some day if—" but his voice broke and Dr. Fairfax said, "Perhaps, Jean, before you go, Richard will let you read some of his own poems. He's a little particular who hears them, but possibly you can persuade him to let you read them. I've got to go out to the barn now to lock up for the night, so I'll leave you here together a little while. I fear it's been a hard day for Jean and Elizabeth, so we mustn't keep them up too late. But doesn't it seem good, Dickie-boy, to have them here? It's really living again."

Left to themselves the two talked together, mostly about Jean's life in California. Just as she was in the midst of a description of a camping trip in the mountains Elizabeth hurried into the room. "What are you two talking about so excitedly? Don't you want the lamp lighted now and some more wood put on the fire? It's almost out. I came in to ask Jean if she would like to go out into the kitchen to see the turkeys and the other preparations, but you're having such a good time I hate to disturb you."

"Oh, I can finish this another time, Elizabeth; I'd like to go with you."

When Jean saw the size of the turkeys and the quantities of other things piled up on the tables she exclaimed, "Why such an amount of food? We'll never eat that in a week."

"Wait till you see all there are to eat it and you won't think this is too much. I'll wager there won't be anything worth eating left over by Friday. I think I'm about ready for bed, Jean. How about you?"

"Quite ready, thank you. Is it late? I've lost all track of time."

"Yes, it's nearly twelve o'clock. It will be very cold up in our room, although I've lighted a fire in the stove, so I think we'd better take up these freestones to keep our feet warm. Let's go in and say good-night to father and Dick."

When the lights were out and Jean was thinking over the events of the day she could not but admit to herself that she had come into the midst of a family life wholly unknown to her before. She recognized a depth and earnestness that were lacking in most of the families with whom she was acquainted. Although she saw evidences of the lack of this world's goods, there was a certain refinement and culture and an appreciation of the things that make life worth while. She began to realize a little the absence of purpose in her own life, and she saw for the first time what she might do with all that was hers to use.

Thanksgiving morning was not as cold as the preceding ones and gave promise of a pleasant day. The family arose early in spite of the late hour of their retiring, and at breakfast Dr. Fairfax suggested that they all attend the Thanksgiving service in the Congregational Church. "By the way, Elizabeth," he said, "Mrs. Walton wants to know if you will play the organ to-day. She hurt her wrist yesterday and won't be able to play for several weeks. She would like to have you sing a solo, too, if you can get some one to play for you."

Elizabeth blushed a little and Jean said, "Why, Elizabeth, I never knew you could play and sing. Why haven't you said something about it at college?"

"There were always so many others who did things better than I that I didn't think any one wanted me. I only play and sing a little, but it helps out here where there are so few to do anything. Will you play my accompaniment if I sing this morning?"

"I have never played on an organ in my life, Elizabeth."

"But there is a piano, too, which we use in the Sunday school, and you can play that."

"Why, yes, if you'd like to have me, but we'd better practise together before the service begins."

"Yes, let's go into the other room now and run over one or two selections."

At ten o'clock the five took their places in the big double-seated sleigh and started for the church, a half-mile down the road. Many a sleigh heavily loaded with old and young passed them, and it did not take long for some one to discover Elizabeth and welcome her home. "Why," said Jean, "you know everybody, Elizabeth."

"Yes, it isn't hard in a little town like this, especially when one's father is the only doctor. I've driven with him ever since I can remember."

They stopped before a severe white church on slightly elevated ground. Dr. Fairfax helped the others to alight and then drove the horse around to the sheds in back of the church.

Elizabeth and Jean went immediately to the choir loft, where they were welcomed by the few singers that had already arrived. It seemed to Jean as though most of them were Elizabeth's cousins, of one degree or another, and she began to believe that everybody in town was related to everybody else. When the congregation began to take their places, Jean took a seat in the audience near the upright piano, which occupied most of the space to the right of the pulpit.

The church was old and severe in every line, evidently built in the early days when worship did not demand comfortable surroundings. The pews were high and narrow, with faded red cushions and stools. By a quarter of eleven every pew was filled and the old white-haired preacher began the service. Jean watched Elizabeth at the organ and marveled at the melody she seemed to be getting out of the wheezy old instrument, which was pumped intermittently by a rosy-cheeked youngster whose mind may have been more on the feast awaiting him at home than on the hymns of praise. When it came Elizabeth's turn to sing, she left the organ and stood in the center of the choir-loft and waited for Jean to strike the opening chords on the piano. Although Jean was a skilled performer on the piano it must be confessed that she trembled a little as she began to play, but when Elizabeth's sweet voice broke into song it gave her confidence, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Elizabeth to be singing and she to be playing in the little village church at Newburgh.

She never remembered much that the old preacher said in his eloquent sermon, for during it all she seemed to be in somewhat of a haze, but afterward she summed it up in three thoughts: the blessedness of home; the joy of the home-coming; and the satisfaction of the parents in knowing that their children have found life worth while and are making something out of it.

There was a general handshaking after the benediction, and before she left Jean thought she knew every person in the church. It did not take her long to see how interested every one was in Elizabeth, and how glad they were to have her with them again. She had a pleasant greeting for them all, and never forgot to ask about the ones left at home.

As they drew up into the Fairfax yard again they found sleighs, single and double, already there and more following them.

"You see, Jean, it's our turn this year to have the relatives at our house," said Dr. Fairfax. "Ours is a pretty big family, and we're counting on twenty or thereabouts to-day. Everybody helps and 'many hands make light work,' you know. You must feel that you're one of the family to-day, Jean, for we're always glad of one more."

There were twenty-six to sit down to the Thanksgiving dinner, nineteen at the large table and seven children at a little one placed in the kitchen. Jean decided that she had never before seen such quantities of food, for in addition to the preparations Mrs. Fairfax had made, every one of the guests had contributed what he thought to be his share. There were turkeys and chickens, vegetables of all kinds, puddings, pies, cakes, fruit, nuts, and candy passed and repassed until all declared they could eat no more.

After dinner there were games and music and the children went outdoors to slide. About six o'clock Mrs. Fairfax suggested supper, but she could find no one inclined to eat except the children, who came in hungry again after their vigorous exercise. Some of the families having a long distance to ride felt obliged to leave at seven, and from then until ten o'clock there was a general departure. When the last sleigh drove out of the yard Elizabeth dropped into her father's old armchair with, "Oh, I'm tired, but wasn't it splendid?"

The next two days were filled with happy experiences for Jean. She coasted on a neighboring hill, drove over to "Aunty" Wilbur's for a "left over" Thanksgiving dinner, went down to Cousin Mary Fairfax's to a candy-pull, and helped Elizabeth in her household duties. She fairly reveled in the outdoor life and the beauty of the hilltop, and declared that for the first time since she had left California was she really living. Before she realized it, Saturday night came and the visit was almost at an end.

After supper, Jean and Dick found themselves alone again before the fireplace and Dick asked that she finish her story of the camp in the mountains which had been interrupted Wednesday evening. When she finished the narrative, she timidly asked Dick if he would read her some of his poems.

"No, I'll not read them to you, but I'll recite them to you if you care to have me." In his sweet, low voice, very similar to his father's, he recited one after another of his poems, short little things, to be sure, but full of feeling and the promise of what was to come later on.

"Splendid," said Jean, when he had finished; "I know you're going to make something of this gift, aren't you?"

"Yes, if I ever have an opportunity. I want to study and have the best education it's possible to get. Since I've had the fever I've wondered if I shall ever get to college. I'm not nearly as strong as I used to be, and sometimes it seems as if I never would be again, but I must live, I must amount to something. I've got too much to live for to give up now."

"What do you intend to do with your education, Richard?"

"I don't know yet, Jean, but a man can do anything if he's educated. Then the whole world's open to him, but when he's not it closes its heavy gates to him and he can beat against them in vain. What are you fitting yourself for, Jean?"

"Why, Dick, I'm almost ashamed to tell you. I've never thought anything about the real purpose of college. I came to Ashton because my father and brothers thought it the best place for me to go. I'm only going to be there one year, and after that I think I'll study music. So far this year I've amounted to nothing; I haven't done any studying and received two faculty warnings. That's pretty serious, you know, but I'm going back Monday morning with the firm determination to do something. You and Elizabeth are an inspiration to me and I'm not going to waste any longer the opportunities that are waiting for me. And don't you get discouraged and worried about not going to college. You're going, I know you are, and next year, too. I've made up my mind to that, and in the meantime I shall need lots of encouragement as an inspiration from you on your hilltop. You'll never know all that this visit has meant to me, and I thank you all for taking me right into your family. This is a secret for us alone, Dick. Please don't say anything about it to the others, for maybe they wouldn't understand, but here's my hand on it, Dick. You've my promise that from now on I'll make something more of myself."