thickly with the big flakes downpouring diagonally from the east. Old
Jerome growled good-naturedly about villainous cab service and blockaded
streets. Nevada, colored like a rose, with sapphire eyes, babbled of
the stormy nights in the mountains around dad's cabin. During all
these wintry apostrophes, Barbara, cold at heart, sawed wood--the only
appropriate thing she could think of to do.

Old Jerome went immediately up-stairs to hot-water-bottles and quinine.
Nevada fluttered into the study, the only cheerfully lighted room,
subsided into an arm-chair, and, while at the interminable task of
unbuttoning her elbow gloves, gave oral testimony as to the demerits
of the "show."

"Yes, I think Mr. Fields is really amusing--sometimes," said Barbara.
"Here is a letter for you, dear, that came by special delivery just
after you had gone."

"Who is it from?" asked Nevada, tugging at a button.

"Well, really," said Barbara, with a smile, "I can only guess. The
envelope has that queer little thing in one corner that Gilbert
calls a palette, but which looks to me rather like a gilt heart on a
school-girl's valentine."

"I wonder what he's writing to me about" remarked Nevada, listlessly.

"We're all alike," said Barbara; "all women. We try to find out what is
in a letter by studying the postmark. As a last resort we use scissors,
and read it from the bottom upward. Here it is."