HOUSE AND GARDEN 
February. 
191 
“P. S. For the love of Mike, don’t tell Mother that we are 
going to walk in, or she would put the kibosh on the whole busi¬ 
ness. Perhaps you had better not show this letter to Aunt Lucy. 
I can trust you, but there is no telling what she might write to 
Mother.” 
“See here,” said I to the lady to whom I had just read the fore¬ 
going, “something must be done to keep those wild nieces of 
vours from tramping twelve miles through the snow.” 
"Don’t worry. They’ll never try it.” 
Two days before Christmas a heavy snow-fall made the trip 
through the mountain pass from Shokan, the nearest station, 
impracticable, and the only way for the girls to reach us was from 
the west, by another road and a drive of more than twenty miles. 
“I am afraid this snow has spoiled your Christmas,” said I 
to the lady as we sat by the fire on Christmas Eve, near the 
hour when St. Nick was due to come down the chimney. “I 
know how anxious you were for the girls to get here and 1 
wanted to see them myself.” 
"Don't worry, for you’ll see them, all right. Those youngsters 
will be along tomorrow. Of course, they can’t get through the 
Gulf, but they will go around by way of Ellenville and find some 
one who will get them through the drifts on that side. You will 
hear their sleigh bells before sunset tomorrow.” 
“I'll be jiggered if I don't hear something - like them now." 
“I hear it, too, but it is coming from Shokan way. I wonder 
who it can be.” 
We didn’t wonder long, for there were voices as well as bells 
The face of nature is changed over night and beyond the snow laden spruce 
the once bare boughs and trunks of the forest show a dazzling whiteness 
After long tramps on ski and snow shoe even the slow going ox team is 
acceptable to carry one home 
and a clattering at the door which burst open to give tumultuous 
entrance to four fur-clad, snow-covered young people. The 
first girl to get inside greeted me with an enthusiasm that left 
me snow-covered and near-breathless. 
"How your many admirers would envy me now, Marian, if 
they only knew.” 
“It wouldn’t do them any good, but who told you that 
I had any?” 
"I heard that you rolled up a dozen victims at the sea¬ 
shore last summer.” 
“Somebody has slandered me, Uncle Archie. I don't 
think there were more than six,” said the child, sadly, but 
she brightened up as she added, “I don't remember that 
any got away, though." 
When the confusion had partially subsided I thought of 
my responsibility for the bunch of youngsters in my house, 
and I began by upbraiding the man who had brought 
them in. 
“What made you take the risk of—’’ 
“Couldn’t help it,” said he, interrupting. “They was 
jist bent on cornin', and if I hadn't fetched ’em they'd ’a’ 
tried it afoot, and you wouldn't ’a’ liked—” 
“It wasn't his fault a bit,” interposed Madge, “for we 
told him it was so important for us to get through that we 
would have to walk if he wouldn’t take us. We were 
afraid that if we didn’t get here tonight Aunt Lucy would 
be worried.” 
“We didn't think you could get through,” said that lady. 
"You must have been eight hours driving in. First you 
must have some supper and then you must tell us what 
happened to you in the Gulf.” 
“We are the hungriest ever, and would all die of starva¬ 
tion before morning, but if you don't cross your heart 
and promise to stay in this room while we get our own 
supper, we won’t eat a mouthful and our blood will be on 
your hands, and so say we all of us." 
“That’s so,” added Marian. “We are agreed on that. 
Madge has taken a course in domestic science and wants 
to try it on the dog. She can fricassee a meringue, or 
casserole a truffle, but she can't boil a potato. Then Jack, 
he's too stuck up to live just because he was camp cook 
last summer.” 
So the jolly four, Marian and Madge, Jack and his 
college chum, Harry Forsyth, an amateur photographer 
of parts, got the supper. 
When the long-drawn-out 
