there was a blazing log fire, and the appointment of the breakfast-table
was good to look upon.

So also was Jill.

Installed behind the cups and silver, my cousin made a sweet picture.
Grave eyes set wide in a smiling face, a pile of golden hair crowning
her pretty head, the slenderest throat, from which the collar of a green
silk coat fell gracefully on either side--so much a cunning painter
might have charmed faithfully on to canvas. But the little air of
importance, of dignity fresh-gathered that sat so naively upon her
brow--this was a thing nor brush nor pencil could capture, but only a
man's eye writing upon a grateful heart.

It was but three days since Daphne had left White Ladies for London, and
grey-eyed Jill reigned in her stead. Berry had accompanied his wife, but
Jonah and I had stayed in the country with Jill, lest we should lose a
note of that echo of summer which good St. Luke had this year piped so
lustily.

But yesterday the strains had faltered and died. A sour east wind had
arisen, that set the trees shivering, and whipped the golden leaves from
their galleries, to send them scudding up the cold grey roads. Worse
still, by noon the sky was big with snow, so that before the post office
was closed, a telegram had fled to London warning my sister to expect us
to arrive by car the following afternoon.

Jill renewed her appeal.

Above the little spirit lamp which she was holding hovered a tiny flame,