The next morning dawned clear and beautiful. Over head, one unbroken expanse of blue; under foot, a mantle of soft, white ermine. All the trees were transformed into fairy-like, silver-robed, pearl-studded, plume-adorned wonders. Diamonds floated in the air, and sunbeams lighted up the whole with dazzling brilliancy. Everything was white, pure, wonderful, and the whole enclosed in a monster chrysolite; earth, air, and sky, were shut within a radiant sphere that had never an outlet.

Madeline had passed an almost sleepless night. But when she arose, with the first gleam of sunlight, and looked upon this new, white, imprisoned world, she felt strong for a fresh day’s battle.

“I must go out,” she said to herself; “out into this sparkling air. I can breathe in the brightness; I know I can. I almost feel as if I could catch it, and weave it into my life.”

She hastily donned her wraps and set off for a brisk walk, no matter where, through that glorious Winter glow.

Under the snow-laden arms of the grand old trees, out of the grounds of Oakley. Before she realized it she was half way down the path leading to the village.

Something that jarred upon her sense of the beautiful, awakened her to herself, and she turned suddenly about.

“How dare ugly little brown bears come out in the white glitter,” she muttered, whimsically. “I will turn about; he spoils the fairy picture. I had forgotten there were boys, or men, in the world.”

Something came panting behind her. The “brown bear” had accelerated his pace, and now came up at a round trot.

“Hold on a minit; darned if I can see who ye air in this snow,” he cried, pausing before her and rubbing his eyes vigorously. “All right; I thought it was you,” he added, after considerable blinking. “I’ve got a tellygram for ye, Miss Payne; orders were not to give it to anyone but you, so I chased ye sharp.”

Madeline laughed outright as she took the telegram from his hand. The boy, without waiting for her words of thanks, took to his heels, shouting back over his shoulder: “No answer!”

Madeline gazed for a moment after the flying figure, and wonderingly opened the message. This is what she read:

Be at H ’s to-night when evening train comes down. We are
ready for action; have found a witness.

C. V.

Madeline lifted her eyes from the scrap of paper and looked about her incredulously, as if she expected to find some explanation shining in the air.

“Ready for action,” she murmured. “That means can it mean that Lucian Davlin is at last in our power? Can those detectives have solved the mystery? Oh! how can I wait until night!”

She fairly flew along now, eager to keep in motion. On, on she went, over the stile, through the glittering white-robed grove; on, until she reached Hagar’s cottage. It was locked and deserted, as she knew, but she cared not for that. She must walk somewhere, then why not here?

For a moment she stood on the snow-laden door stone, and gazed about her. Then swiftly, as swiftly as before, she flew down the path the same path she had taken on the Summer day when she had heard from Hagar’s lips her mother’s story. When she reached the tree in whose arms she had nestled so often, where she had listened to the bargain between her step-father and decrepit old Amos Adams, and where she had been wooed by Lucian Davlin she paused. There, coming toward her, was Lucian Davlin himself.

“What a fatality!” muttered the girl. “He is coming to meet me; has been watching me, perhaps.”

She stood calmly gazing up at the snow-laden branches, and again she saw herself standing underneath them, a hesitating girl, wondering if she could let her lover go away alone. Then she turned her head and her eyes met those of Lucian Davlin.

“Good morning, Miss Payne,” he said, lifting his hat with his usual grace. “I am happy to know that we have one taste in common a love of nature in this disguise. Is not the wintry world beautiful?”

“Beautiful, indeed,” replied Madeline, resuming her walk homeward. “The trees are fairy palaces. It is lovelier than Summer, is it not?”

“It is very lovely,” gazing not at the trees but down into her face, “but so cold.”

She understood his meaning and replied, calmly: “Cold? Yes; it is not Summer.”

“No,” he assented, with a sad intonation, “it is not Summer. Miss Payne, Madeline, will it ever be Summer again?”

Madeline looked up and about her, and smiled as she did so. “Yes,” she replied, “it will be Summer soon.”

He had turned and retraced his steps at her side. She was walking swiftly again, and for some time neither spoke. When they entered the grounds of the manor, he said, half deprecatingly:

“Madeline, may I ask this one question?”

“Yes,” quietly.

“I saw you pause under that tree and look about you,” he said, slowly; “was it because you thought of other days, and of me?”

Slowly she turned her face toward him, saying, simply: “Yes.”

They were nearing the entrance, and he half stopped to ask his next question. “Will you tell me what were your thoughts, Madeline?”

Slowly she ascended the steps, and at the door turned and faced him:
“I will tell you to-night.”

And with a ripple of laughter on her lips, she entered the hall of Oakley.