surmounted by a flight of stone steps. It fairly looked down, like
any spirit of a younger age, upon the older house, which might have
been regarded in a way as its progenitor.

The smoke was coming out of the kitchen chimney in the ell. Lot
Gordon looked across. Burr was clearing the snow from the stone steps
over the terraces. There had never been any lack of energy and
industry in Burr to account for his flagging fortunes. He arose
betimes every morning. Lot, standing well behind the dimity curtain,
watched him flinging the snow aside like spray, his handsome face
glowing like a rose.

"I suppose he is going to the party at the tavern to-night," Lot
murmured. Suddenly his face took on a piteous, wistful look like a
woman's; tears stood in his blue eyes. He doubled over with a violent
fit of coughing, then went back to his chair and his book.

This party had been the talk of the village for several weeks. It was
to be an unusually large one. People were coming from all the towns
roundabout. Burr Gordon had been one of the ringleaders of the
enterprise. All day long he worked over the preparations, dragging
out evergreen garlands from under the snow in the woods, cutting
hemlock boughs, and trimming the ball-room in the tavern. Towards
night he heard a piece of news which threatened to bring everything
to a standstill. The dusk was thickening fast; Burr and the two young
men who were working with him were hurrying to finish the decorations
before candlelight when Richard Hautville came in. Burr started when
he saw him. He looked so like his sister in the dim light that he
thought for a moment she was there.