3 66 
HOUSE AND GARDEN 
December, 1911 
“Why that — that sounded like iron,'’ exclaimed Mr. Mantell, in 
a voice that suggested some disappointment. He picked the key 
up, and applied to it the point of his penknife. “Just the thinnest 
coating of gold,” he asserted. “It’s too bad, dear.” 
“But the box,” insisted Mrs. Mantell, trying bravely to hide 
her disappointment. “I still have faith in Uncle Jay’s present — 
even if people didn't understand his peculiar ways. What do 
you suppose is in it?” 
“Diamonds,” said Mr. Mantell, with a 
smile, “made of the best of glass.” 
“Henry!” expostulated his wife. “You 
don’t deserve any Christmas. No fairy 
would stay in the room with you a min¬ 
ute. It might be - ” 
“It might be,” he concluded for her, and 
more than half in seriousness, “his savings 
bank account. Compound interest for sev¬ 
enteen years — that would be quite a nice 
fairy.” 
The big key clicked in the big lock on 
the little box. 
“Oh-h,” said Mrs. Mantell simply, but 
with a falling inflection that expressed 
more than many words. She passed the 
box to her husband with one hand, and 
with the other sought for her handker¬ 
chief. Mr. Mantell gave one look and 
then threw back his head and laughed 
loud and long — laughed as she had not 
heard him laugh in years. 
“Henry! how can you!” she exclaimed, 
dashing the tears from her shining eyes. 
“You’re too cruel for words.” 
He put one arm around his wife's shoul¬ 
ders and kissed her. “Never mind, Pet," 
he said, atoningly. “Look, here’s some¬ 
thing on the card.” 
Together they bent over the photograph 
of a rambling country house which the box 
contained, and read, in the jet-black, hair-line chirography of the 
long deceased Uncle Jay, 
“The roof is tight, 
The taxes paid, 
Come back home, 
When the game is played.” 
“Abominable grammar,” said Mr. Mantell — “most abominable. 
But say, what do you know about that! What good does this do 
us ? I suppose the place was worth about $3,000 then ; it must be 
worth about $300 now.” 
“You are quite a brute,” replied his wife, suddenly all eagerness 
in voice and manner. “You don’t deserve any Christmas at all.' 
You don’t recognize the gifts of the Magi when they're showered 
upon you. You can do what you please, but Robert and Helen 
and I are going to spend Christmas in the country—the real 
country — and have the lark of our lives.” 
“Nonsense, Helen, nonsense,” he protested, catching her inten¬ 
tion and alarmed at her earnestness. “Why it would be the height 
of folly. It’s impossible. Think of the-” 
“Think — think!” she contested, of course warming to her theme 
under opposition, “we’ve done nothing but think for years. Think 
and plot and work for a life here, in a brick cage with lace cur¬ 
tains. I won’t think. We’ve got plenty of money for carfares 
and that settles it. It will be more fun for Rob and Helen than 
anything else we could possibly do. Now don’t try to reason 
with me, because I won’t reason.” 
Well, it doesn’t take a philosopher to know that when a pretty 
woman gets a silly idea wedged nicely and firmly into her imagi¬ 
native head it can be dislodged about as easily as a capsized canoe 
may be paddled up a rapids. Besides, Henry Mantell always 
secretly admired these infrequent unreasonable or super-reason¬ 
able moods in his capable wife. So the natural up-shot of the 
matter was that a late hour found them sitting before the hearth 
discussing the exciting details of their strange adventure to 
winter-bound Arcadia. 
For the sake of the artistic touch the 
dying flames and the sinking embers 
should close the scene, but the flames only 
flickered back and forth over the change¬ 
less logs, with a slightly gassy smell, for 
a genuine fireplace and a real fire was a 
luxury they had desired, but never quite 
felt they could afford. 
II. 
The agent at Priestly Junction received 
a somewhat disjointed telegram the next 
day that requested him to have carriages 
at the 5 :23 train to take four passengers 
and two trunks to the old Rasmunsen 
place, and have half a cord of cut wood 
delivered there immediately. Six dollars 
to defray expenses had been paid at the 
sending office. 
Accordingly when the 5123 pulled in 
that night — at 5:56—Mr. Mantell found 
awaiting him the express agent, telegraph 
operator, baggage master and ticket agent 
in the presence of Bill and his co-worker ; 
the chief of police and postmaster in the 
person of Mr. Hutchins; and Priestly 
Junction’s leading merchant, citizen and 
liveryman in the rather stout personage 
of Mr. Logan; who had all been attracted 
by the somewhat mysterious and very un¬ 
usual message. There also awaited him 
several lesser lights, and in addition the 
very definite rumor that he was a millionaire broker es¬ 
caping for a quiet Christmas in the country with a promi¬ 
nent actress, who would undoubtedly have been recog¬ 
nized if venturing to any more populous center than Priestly 
Junction. The appearance of Bob and Helen, however, full of 
energy suppressed by half a day’s ride in a slow train, very 
shortly dissipated the supposition for one several shades nearer 
the truth. 
The postmaster, with all the dignity at his command, intro¬ 
duced himself and then his companions and after a brief inspec¬ 
tion of trunks and bags, Mr. Mantell brought on the first shock 
by stating that before driving out to the place they wanted to 
secure a few provisions. Bill and his partner looked at each 
other with a double grin. The postmaster looked at Mr. Logan, 
and Priestly Junction’s foremost citizen looked at the station 
platform. 
“Why-er-ye see, this ’ere aint much of a city,” explained Mr. 
Logan. “We don’t keep much of a line outside of gen’l grocer¬ 
ies — soap, an’ matches, an’ clothes-lines, etc.” He paused, for 
want of wares. 
Mr. Mantell looked helplessly at his wife. Perhaps there was 
an expression of “I told you so” in his eye. At any rate she took 
matters into her own hands. 
“Oh, we didn’t want much,” she volunteered. “Just a couple 
of chickens, and some cranberries, and sweet potatoes, and cel¬ 
ery, and nuts, and lettuce, and cream.” 
Mr. Logan groaned aloud. “Celery—lettuce — cream,” he 
puffed. “Why, Mam, we aint in the city, you must remember. 
The rambling-roofed house nestling in the 
snow-covered hillside offered the appear¬ 
ance of welcome Christmas comfort 
