'I hardly know; sometimes I think I am, and sometimes not; but it is
of no consequence what I am as long as I have you,--you and papa. Tell
me more about the little tree, Jarvis. What does it mean? What is
that white shining toy on the top? Is there a story about it?'

'Yes, there is a story; but--but it is not I who should tell it to
you,' replied the young man, after a moment's hesitation.

'Why not! Whom have I in all the world to tell me, save you?' said
fondly the sweet child-voice.

They did not take away the little Christmas-tree, but left it on its
pedestal at the far end of the long room through the winter; and as
the cross melted slowly, a new one took its place, and shone aloft in
the firelight. But its story was not told.

February came, and with it a February thaw; the ice stirred a little,
and the breeze coming over the floes was singularly mild. The arctic
winds and the airs from the Gulf Stream had met and mingled, and the
gray fog appeared again, waving to and fro. 'Spring has come,' said
Silver; 'there is the dear fog.' And she opened the window of the
flower room, and let out a little bird.

'It will find no resting-place for the sole of its foot, for the snow
is over the face of the whole earth,' said Waring. 'Our ark has kept
us cosily through bitter weather, has it not, little one?' (He had
adopted a way of calling her so.)

'Ark,' said Silver; 'what is that?'