the child sitting at his elbow and watching him with happy eyes. There
were "story times," instituted years before, as soon as Star had
learned to sew on patchwork; for as for sewing _without_ a story to
listen to, "_that_," said Star, "is against my nature, Daddy. And
you don't want me to do things that are against my nature, do you?"
So whenever the squares of gay calico came out, and the golden head
bent to and fro over them, like a paradise bird hovering over a bed
of gaudy flowers, the story came out, too, between puffs of the pipe,
while the fire crackled a cheery accompaniment, sputtering defiance
to the wind that whistled outside. Some tale of the southern seas,
and the wild tropic islands, of coral reefs and pearl-fisheries,
sharks and devil-fish; or else a whaling story, fresh and breezy as
the north, full of icebergs, and seal-hunts over the cracking floes,
polar bears, and all the wild delights of whale-fishing.

Then, on fine days (and oh, but the days are fine, in these glorious
northern winters!) there was much joy to be had out-of-doors. For
there was a spot in the little meadow,--once of gold-flecked emerald,
now of spotless pearl,--a spot where the ground "tilted," to use
Star's expression, suddenly down to a tiny hollow, where a fairy
spring bubbled out of the rock into a fairy lake. In summer, Star
rather despised this lake, which was, truth to tell, only twenty feet
long and ten feet wide. It was very nice for Imogen to drink from
and to stand in on hot days, and it did many lovely things in the
way of reflecting blue skies and fleecy clouds and delicate traceries
of leaf and bough; but as water, it seemed a very trifling thing to
a child who had the whole sweep of the Atlantic to fill her eyes,
and who had the breakers for her playfellows and gossips.

But in winter, matters were different. All the laughing lips of