"Oh, that cough is all right. It will go when spring comes. I just
haven't had a chance to rest my throat. I feel fine to-night. Come on
in, Baldwin. Yes, we are ready. Still snowing? Well, a little snow--
Here, Carol, you must wear your gaiters. I'll buckle them."

A little later they set out, the three of them, heads lowered against
the driving snow. There were no cars running across country, and
indeed not even sidewalks, since it was an unfrequented part of the
town with no residences for many blocks until one reached the little,
tumbledown section in the Hollow. Here and there were heavy drifts,
and now and then an unexpected ditch in the path gave Carol a tumble
into the snow, but, laughing and breathless, she was pulled out again
and they plodded heavily on.

In spite of the inclement weather, the tiny house--called a mission by
grace of speech--was well and noisily filled. Over sixty people were
crowded into the two small rooms, most of them boys between the ages of
twelve and sixteen, laughing, coughing, dragging their feet, shoving
the heavy benches, dropping song-books. They greeted the snow-covered
trio with a royal roar, and a few minutes later were singing, "Yes,
we'll gather at the river," at the tops of their discordant voices.
Carol sat at the wheezy organ, painfully pounding out the rhythmic
notes,--no musician she, but willing to do anything in a pinch. And
although at the pretty little church up in the Heights she never
attempted to lift her voice in song, down at the mission she felt
herself right in her element and sang with gay good-will, happy in the
knowledge that she came as near holding to the tune as half the others.

Most of the evening was spent in song, David standing in the narrow