For three days and nights the snow fell, covering all the ground for some feet deep.

Never, in the memory of the people, had such a snowfall been seen in that section. Yet it could scarcely be called a snowstorm, for there was no wind, not a single whiff, and therefore, of course, no snowdrifts. The snow fell slowly, evenly, steadily, dropping over the earth a soft, thick, white mantle.

“We shall be all snowed up, and there’s an end to our New Year’s dance at Oldfield,” said Wynnette, as she stood at the front window of the little parlor, on the third day of the snowfall, looking drearily out over the white earth and powdering sky.

“It can’t snow forever!” exclaimed Elva, who was seated at the center table, playing “jacks” with hazelnuts.

“I believe it will snow forever! It looks like it. Just look out and see! All the low fences are covered, and nothing but the tops of the high fences can be seen, and the Scotch firs are so loaded down with snow I should think the limbs would snap right off! And it is still snowing as steadily as ever! It just reminds one of the snowbound traveler at the ‘Holly Tree Inn,’ when—‘It snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed, and it continued to snow, and it never ceased from snowing.’ No, nor it never will!” said Wynnette, flattening her nose against the cold window pane.

“Call this snow?” rather slightingly demanded the lady from Wild Cats’, as she sat in front of the wood fire, with her feet on the fender and her skirts drawn up to toast her shins, while she was eating hazelnuts, of which she had a lap full, and which she cracked with her strong, white teeth. “Call this snow, indeed! You don’t know what snow is! Hush, honeys! You ought to see the Nevadas after a midwinter snowfall! Yes! where whole trains of wagons are stopped and whole camps snowed up, until all hands perish of cold and hunger. Don’t tell me! You don’t know nothin’ about snow here.” And she stopped talking to put another nut between her teeth and crack it.

“I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t for the New Year’s Eve party,” said Wynnette.

“Never mind, it will be clear to-morrow. You know we never do have more than three days at a time of any sort of bad weather—wind, or rain, or snow, or anything! I am sure it will clear off to-morrow,” hopefully suggested Elva, deftly throwing a “jack” into the air and snatching two from the table in time to catch the falling one.

“I know it won’t be clear to-morrow! Just look how it comes. I can hardly see the fir trees now through the thick falling powder. No! it is going to keep on this way forever and ever,” growled Wynnette, who was, for her, in a very despondent mood.

Next day, being New Year’s Eve, it did clear off, however. And in the most delightful way. Not with a high wind, as it often does, to drift the new-fallen snow and obstruct the roads and make matters worse than before; but with a still, cold, bright, frosty air that hardened the snow and glazed its surface and made—such splendid sleighing.

“Oh, good-morning, Sun!” said little Elva, standing at the front window of the parlor and looking eastward. “Good-morning, Sun! We are very glad to see you again!”

“After your uncommonly bad behavior in sulking and hiding yourself for the last three days,” added Wynnette, who was now standing beside her youngest sister.

“You wrong the beautiful and benignant sun, Wynnette, dear,” said Miss Meeke, coming up behind them. “The sun is always shining for us. The earth turns around from the sun, and it is night—turns toward him, and it is day. The earth wanders far away from the sun, and it is winter—comes toward him again, and it is summer. But the sun shines in the empyrean all the time, wherever the earth may be. Fogs and mists arise from the land and water, condense in clouds, and obscure his glorious face, but they come down in rain or snow, clearing the atmosphere, and we say the sun shines again, when, in truth, he has been shining all the time. And as it is with the sun and earth, dear children, so it is with our Father in heaven and ourselves. We turn away from Him, and our souls grow dark; we turn to Him again, and we receive His light. We wander far from Him into selfishness and worldliness, and we suffer a spiritual coldness and blindness; we come back to Him, and we are warmed and enlightened by His love and His wisdom. Sometimes doubts and fears and hates—the opposites of faith and hope and love—arise from our lower nature and hide from us the face of our Father in heaven; but He has not changed. He is always ready to bless us when we turn again to Him—turn in truth and love, children, not in terror and self-seeking. So, dear ones, when clouds and storms darken the atmosphere, think of the sun that is shining above them; and when doubts and fears and sorrows and temptations come, think of the love and wisdom and power of our Father in heaven, and turn to Him for light and strength and guidance.”

Miss Meeke’s little lesson was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Force, who gave a cheery good-morning to the young trio, and then said:

“Well, my dears, after all you have the prospect of a very pleasant afternoon and evening. The sun, you see, has come out brightly. The snow is frozen as hard as a rock. The moon is full to-night. The sleighing will be capital both in going and coming, and you will have the moonlight in coming home.”

“There will be eight of us to go, papa,” said Wynnette, beginning to count on her fingers. “There will be you and mamma, two; Le and Odalite, four; Elva and I, six; and Miss Meeke and Mrs. Anglesea, eight. Can we all go in one sleigh? It will be so much jollier if we can.”

“With a little sociable crowding, which no one will object to on a cold winter night, we can all go in one sleigh—the largest one, of course, and with four draught horses, equally of course.”

While he spoke Mrs. Anglesea came in, eating a large pippin. She bade a general good-morning with her mouth full, took the chair which Mr. Force politely placed for her before the fire, hoisted her stoutly booted feet on the fender, drew up the edge of her skirt to toast her shins as usual, and went on eating her apple, remarking that it had cleared off very cold, and that she always ate an apple before breakfast, when she could get one, to help her digestion.

Now no one could look at the lady from the gold mines and imagine that there was, ever had been, or ever could be, anything the matter with her digestion; but Mr. Force replied that it was no doubt a very healthy habit.

“You bet!” exclaimed the lady from Wild Cats’, “Why, old man, if you was to eat an apple every day before breakfast, or better still, two or three of them, it would clarify your liver and take some o’ that yellowness out’n your skin, and give you an appetite, and put some flesh on them bare bones of your’n. You bet!”

Mr. Force bowed gravely, thanked her, and said he would think of it.

Other members of the family dropped in, as it was now near the breakfast hour. And the conversation ran on the clear, crisp day, the fine sleighing opportunities, and the coming dance of the evening. All was pleasant anticipation. The day was spent in preparations.

It was still an hour to sundown when the whole family, including, of course, the guest, after an early tea, and being well wrapped up in hooded cloaks and heavy shawls, entered a capacious sleigh, lined with bearskins, furnished with foot warmers, and drawn by four strong horses, covered their laps with more bearskins and started for Oldfield.

The full moon was rising over the bay on the east, and the sun was sinking behind the high, wooded hill on the west, as they passed out of the south gate and entered the turnpike road that skirted the hill and then ran parallel to the shore of the bay all the way to Oldfield Farm. It was a fine, level road along the shore, and they had a delightful sleigh ride over the frozen snow, which, in a little more than an hour’s time, brought them to Oldfield Farm. The approach from the bay side was through a pine wood, from which, when they emerged, they came in view of the house, which was lighted up from garret to ground floor. Half a dozen or more of other sleighs, which had brought company to the farm, and from which the horses had been taken and led to the stable, stood in the yard.

The negro boy, Dan, no longer ragged, as when we first made his acquaintance at Grove Hill, but dressed neatly in his new Christmas suit, came to the horses’ heads, while Mr. Force and Leonidas got out to assist the ladies and children to alight.

“Marse Abul,” said Dan, apologetically, “I can take dese horses to de stable, an’ put all dese b’arskins in de lof’, an’ ’vite Uncle Jake inter de kitchen, but I ’spects I’ll hab ter leabe de big sleigh out yere, caze dere ain’t no room in de stable fo’ all dese yer big sleighs in de yard. ’Sides w’ich, it bein’ ob a cl’ar night, de sleigh won’t take no harm.”

“All right; leave the sleigh here, my boy,” said Mr. Force, drawing his wife’s arm within his own, and leading the way into the lighted passage, followed by all the rest of his party.

On the right side of the passage was an open door, leading into a room in which tables along the walls were covered with Christmas goodies; while on the left hand was another room, in which were gathered about thirty people, young, middle-aged and old—some sitting down, some standing in groups, some walking about in pairs, and all talking at once, and no one listening, apparently.

At the end of the hall, directly opposite the front door, there was a flight of steps leading to the rooms above, and up these stairs our party went to take off their wraps. In the upper passage there were doors on the right and left leading into bedrooms. At one of these doors, on the right, stood Peggy Grandiere, ready to show the lady guests into their dressing room; at the opposite door, on the left, stood Sam Grandiere, ready to show the gentlemen into theirs.

Here, of course, our set divided and followed their guides—Mr. Force and Leonidas going one way and Mrs. Force and her party the other.

In the ladies’ room they found a good, open fire, and the colored girl Henny in attendance; but there was none of the company present besides themselves, except Miss Sibby Bayard, who was standing before the glass, settling a smart cap made of white Irish gauze and white satin ribbon on her head.

“Good-evening! That’s right! I am glad to see you all here! Be merry while you may, sez I; for you don’t often get the chance, sez I!”

Such was her general greeting of the party; but after she had fixed her cap to her mind, she turned around and shook hands with every individual.

When Mrs. Force and her party had laid off their wraps, they stood up in the same costumes they had worn at their own Christmas Eve dance. There was no extravagance, and but little variety of dressing in that neighborhood.

A changing of boots for slippers, a little shaking down of slightly rumpled skirts, a little touching up of slightly disarranged hair, a drawing on and buttoning of kid gloves, and they were all ready.

Their two gentlemen met them at the chamber door, and they went down together.

Their entrance seemed to complete the expected company, and to give the signal for “the opening of the ball,” for before seats could be found for the elders of the party the musicians, consisting of two negro fiddlers, a tambourine and a banjo player, struck the stirring, old-fashioned tune of the “Fisher’s Hornpipe.” And gentlemen immediately took their partners—Mr. Force led out Mrs. Anglesea; Leonidas took Odalite; Ned and Sam Grandiere, Wynnette and Elva, for one set. William Elk and Thomas Grandiere, the elders, took respectively Miss Sukey Grandiere and Miss Sibby Bayard; Dr. Ingle and Roland Bayard took respectively Natalie Meeke and Rosemary Hedge. These formed the second set. There was not room enough in the farmhouse parlor for a third set, so about half the company had to wait their turn; but they amused themselves very well in the interim by listening to the music, watching the dancers, gossiping, flirting, and making flying excursions into the dining room for refreshment in the form of plum cake, pound cake, raisins and almonds, and sugar kisses, lemon punch, apple toddy, or eggnogg.

When the first quadrilles were completed, another set of dancers took the place of the first, and the former rested on their laurels, watched their successors on the floor, gossiped and flirted, and made flying excursions to the dining room in their turn.

And high festivity continued until the tall clock in the passage struck twelve, when the music stopped in the middle of “Malbrook,” and all then mingled together, shaking hands and wishing each other

“Happy New Year.”

Then all the dancers formed a double line the whole length of the parlor, for the giddy, whirling, exhilarating Virginia reel, with which the ball ended.

Finally, there went around a huge jug of hot mulled port wine, from which a goblet was filled for every guest.

And when this had been drunk amid much jesting and laughter, the company put on their wraps and hoods, bade good-night to their hosts, entered their sleighs, and, with more jesting and more laughter, started for a moonlight drive over the frozen snow to their several homes.

And so ended the New Year’s Eve party at Oldfield Farm.