He did not go down to supper when Mrs. Dearborn called him, so she
went up after a while with a glass of milk and a doughnut.

"There, there!" she said soothingly; "don't take it so hard. Try and
eat something; you'll feel better if you do."

Steven tried to obey, but every mouthful choked him. "Rindy'll be
awful good to him," she said after a long pause. "She thinks he's the
loveliest child she ever set eyes on, but she was afraid her husband
would think he was too much of a baby if she took him home with those
long curls on. She cut 'em off before they started, and I saved 'em. I
knew you'd be glad to have 'em."

She lit the candle on the washstand and handed him a paper. He sat up
and opened it. There lay the soft, silky curls, shining like gold in
the candle-light, as they twined around his fingers. It was more than
he could bear. His very lips grew white.

Mrs. Dearborn was almost frightened. She could not understand how a
child's grief could be so deep and passionate.

He drew them fondly over his wet cheeks, and pressed them against his
quivering lips. Then laying his face down on them, he cried till he
could cry no longer, and sleep came to his relief.

Next morning, when Steven pulled the window curtain aside, he seemed
to be looking out on another world. The first snow of the winter
covered every familiar object, and he thought, in his childish way,
that last night's experience had altered his life as the snowdrifts