At one time the perilous walk of yesterday was the subject of
conversation, and Mr. Winters was again expressing his gratitude. "So
strange," he remarked, "that you should have been coming this way.
How did you happen to start out in such a storm?"

Mr. Monteith did not like to talk upon that subject; he murmured
something about "business," while a slight flush tinged his cheeks,
and at once asked Mr. Winters "what effect he supposed the resumption
of specie payment would have upon the state of the country," and the
unsuspecting old gentleman was ready to enter with avidity upon the
discussion of that subject.

The Christmas dinner duly disposed of, Edna opened the piano, and Mr.
Monteith delighted the old people by joining his exquisite tenor to
Edna's voice in some old hymns. Mr. Winters called for his
favourites, "St. Martins," "Golden Hill," "Exhortation," and listened
with tears in his eyes at their faithful rendering, even essaying to
put in a few notes of bass himself among the quavers of old St.
Martins.

Not until the shadows began to steal into the room did Mr. Monteith
take his departure, much to his own regret as well as that of his
entertainers, with many promises of future visits.

A few days after Christmas the stage-driver left at the door a small
box marked "Samuel Winters." The old gentleman put on his glasses and
opened it with much curiosity. Behold, there lay a lovely bouquet of
roses, carnations, and violets. He lifted it with care, and a card
marked "Hugh Monteith" fell from it. "That is odd," he said, with a
roguish look at Edna, "to send these things to me; they are pretty,