Laine's eyes swept the scene before him. The brilliant sunshine on
field and river and winding road for a moment was blinding. The
biting air stung his face, and life seemed suddenly a splendid,
joyous thing. The girl beside him was looking ahead, as if at
something to be seen there; and again he turned to her.

"You love it here?"

"Love it?" Her eyes were raised to his. "Everything in it, of it,
about it!" With her left hand she brushed away the strands of hair
the wind had blown across her eyes. "It is my home."

"A woman can make a home anywhere. A man--"

"No, she can't--that is, I couldn't. I'd smother in New York. It is
wonderful to go to. I love its stir and color and the splendid
things it is doing; but you can't listen to the wind in the trees, or
watch the stars come out, or let your other self have a chance." She
turned to him. "We're very slow and queer down here. Are you sure
you won't mind coming for Christmas?"

Laine leaned forward and straightened the robe, and out of his face
the color faded. He was only one of the several guests. "You are
very good to let me come," he said, quietly. "I have not thanked
you. I don't know how to thank you. Christmas by one's self--"

"Is unrighteous!" She nodded gaily and touched the horse with the
whip. "There's Elmwood! There's my home! Please like Virginia, Mr.
Vermont man!"