It was a cold, snowy night that Courtland came down to the city and took the Western express for his holiday.

There was snow, deep, vast, glistening, when he arrived at Sloan's Station on the second morning, but the sun was out, and nothing could be more dazzling than the scene that stretched on every side. They had come through a blizzard and left it traveling eastward at a rapid rate.

Courtland was surprised to find Father Marshall waiting for him on the platform, in a great buffalo-skin overcoat, beaver cap, and gloves. He carried a duplicate coat which he offered to Courtland as soon as the greetings were over.

"Here, put this on; you'll need it," he said, heartily, holding out the coat. "It was Steve's. I guess it'll fit you. Mother and Bonnie's over here, waiting. They couldn't stand it without coming along. I guess you won't mind the ride, will you, after them stuffy cars? It's a beauty day!"

And there were Mother Marshall and Bonnie, swathed to the chin in rugs and shawls and furs, looking like two red-cheeked cherubs!

Bonnie was wearing a soft wool cap and scarf of knitted gray and white.

Her cheeks glowed like roses; her eyes were two stars for brightness.

Her gold hair rippled out beneath the cap and caught the sunshine all around her face.

Courtland stood still and gazed at her in wonder and admiration. Was this the sad, pale girl he had sent West to save her life? Why, she was a beauty, and she looked as if she had never been ill in her life! He could scarcely bear to take his eyes from her face long enough to get into the front seat with Father Marshall.

As for Mother Marshall, nothing could be more satisfactory than the way she looked like her picture, with those calm, peaceful eyes and that tendency to a dimple in her cheek where a smile would naturally come.

Apple-cheeked, silver-haired, and plump. She was just ideal!

That was a gay ride they had, all talking and laughing excitedly in their happiness at being together. It was so good to Mother Marshall to see another pair of strong young shoulders there beside Father on the front seat again!

It was Mother Marshall who took him up to Stephen's room herself when they reached the nice old rambling farm-house set in the wide, white, snowy landscape. Father Marshall had taken the car to the barn, and Bonnie was hurrying the dinner on the table.

Courtland entered the room as if it had been a sacred place, and looked around on the plain comfort: the home-made rugs, the fat, worsted pincushion, the quaint old pictures on the walls, the bookcase with its rows of books; the big white bed with its quilted counterpane of delicate needlework, the neat marble-topped washstand with its speckless appointments and its wealth of large old-fashioned towels.

"It isn't very fancy," said Mother Marshall, deprecatingly. "We fixed up Bonnie's room as modern as we could when we knew she was coming"--she waved an indicating hand toward the open door across the hall, where the rosy glow of pink curtains and cherry-blossomed wall gave forth a pleasant sense of light and joy--"and we had meant to fix this all over for Steve the first Christmas when he came home, as a surprise; but now that he has gone we sort of wanted to keep it just as he left it."

"It is great!" said Courtland, simply. "I like it just like this. Don't you? It is fine of you to put me in it. I feel as if it was almost a desecration, because, you see, I didn't know him very well; I wasn't the friend to him I might have been. I thought I ought to tell you that right at the start. Perhaps you wouldn't want me if you knew all about it."

"You would have been his friend if you had had a chance to know him,"

beamed the brave little mother. "He was a real brave boy always!"

"He sure was!" said Courtland, deeply stirred. "But I did get to know what a man he was. I saw him die, you know! But it was too late then!"

"It is never too late!" said Mother Marshall, brushing away a bright tear. "There is heaven, you know!"

"Why, surely there is heaven! I hadn't thought of that! Won't that be great?" Courtland spoke the words reverently. It came to him gladly that he might make up in heaven for many things lost down here. He had never thought of that before.

"I wonder if you would mind," said Mother Marshall, wistfully, "if I was to kiss you, the way I used to do Steve when he'd been away?"

"I would mind very much," said Courtland, setting his suit-case down suddenly and taking the plump little mother reverently into his big arms. "It would be _great_, Mother Marshall," and he kissed her twice.

Mother Marshall reached her short little arms up around his neck and laid her gray head for just a minute on the tall shoulder, while a tear hurried down and fitted itself invisibly into her dimple; then she ran her fingers through his thick brown hair and patted his cheek.

"Dear boy!" she breathed, contentedly, but suddenly roused herself.

"Here I'm keeping you, and that dinner'll spoil! Wash your hands and come down quick! Bonnie will have everything ready!"

Courtland first realized the deep, happy, spiritual life of the home when he came down to the dining-room and Father Marshall bowed his head to ask a blessing. Strange as it may seem, it was the first time in his life that he had ever sat at a home table where a blessing was asked upon the food. They had the custom in the seminary, of course, but it was observed perfunctorily, the men taking it by turns. It had never seemed the holy recognition of the Presence of the Master, as Father Marshall made it seem.

There was Bonnie, like a daughter of the house, getting up for a second pitcher of cream, running to the kitchen for more gravy. It was so ideal that Courtland felt like throwing his napkin up in the air and cheering.

It was all arranged by Mother Marshall that Bonnie and he should go to the woods after dinner for greens and a Christmas tree. Bonnie looked at Courtland almost apologetically, wondering if he were too tired for a strenuous expedition like that.

No. Courtland was not tired. He had never been so rested in his life. He felt like hugging Mother Marshall for getting up the plan, for he could see Bonnie never would have proposed it, she was too shy. He donned a pair of Stephen's old leather leggings and a sweater, shouldered the ax quite as if he had ever carried one before, and they started.

He thought he never had seen anything quite so lovely as Bonnie in that fuzzy little woolen cap, with the sunshine of her hair straying out and the fine glow in her beautiful face. He knew he had never heard music half so sweet as Bonnie's laugh as it rang through the woods when she saw a squirrel sitting on a high limb scolding at their intrusion. He never thought of Gila once the whole afternoon, nor even brought to mind his lost ideals of womanhood.

They found a tree just to their liking. Bonnie had it all picked out weeks beforehand, but she did not tell him so, and he thought he had discovered it for himself. They cut ma.s.ses of laurel, and ground-pine, and strung them on twine. They dragged the tree and greens home through the snow, laughing and struggling with their fragrant burden, getting wonderfully well acquainted, so that at the very door-step they had to lay down their greens and have a snow-fight, with Father and Mother Marshall standing delightedly at the kitchen window, watching them.

Mother's cheek was pressed softly against the old gray hat. She was thinking how Stephen would have liked to be here with them; how glad he would be if he could hear the happy shouts of young people ringing around the lonely old house again!

They set the tree up in the big parlor, and made a great log fire on the hearth to give good cheer--for the house was warm as a pocket without it. They colored and strung popcorn, gilded walnuts, cut silver-paper stars and chains for the tree, and hung strings of cranberries, bright-red apples, and oranges between. They trimmed the house from top to bottom, even twining ground-pine on the stair rail.

Those were the speediest two weeks that Courtland ever spent in his life. He had thought to remain with the Marshalls perhaps three or four days, but instead of that he delayed till the very last train that would get him back to the seminary in time for work, and missed two cla.s.ses at that. For he had never had a comrade like Bonnie; and he knew, from the first day almost, that he had never known a love like the love that flamed up in his soul for this sweet, strong-spirited girl. The old house rang with their laughter from morning to night as they chased each other up-stairs and down, like two children. Hours they spent taking long tramps through the woods or over the country roads; more hours they spent reading aloud to each other, or rather, most of the time Bonnie reading and Courtland devouring her lovely face with his eyes from behind a sheltering hand, watching every varying expression, noting the straight, delicate brows, the beautiful eyes filled with holy things as they lifted now and then in the reading; marveling over the sweetness of the voice.

The second day of his visit Courtland had made an errand with Bonnie to town to send off several telegrams. As a result a lot of things arrived for him the day before Christmas, marked "Rush!" They were smuggled into the parlor, behind the Christmas tree, with great secrecy after dark by Bonnie and Courtland; and covered with the buffalo robes from the car till morning. There was a big leather chair with air-cushions for Father Marshall; its mate in lady's size for Mother; a set of encyclopedias that he had heard Father say he wished he had; a lot of silver forks and spoons for Mother, who had apologized for the silver being rubbed off of some of hers. There were two sets of books in wonderful leather bindings that he had heard Bonnie say she longed to read, and there was the tiniest little gold watch, about which he had been in terrible doubt ever since he had sent for it. Suppose Bonnie should think it wrong to accept it when she had known him so short a time! How was he going to make her see that it was all right? He couldn't tell her she was a sort of a sister of his, for he didn't want her for a sister. He puzzled over that question whenever he had time, which wasn't often, because he was so busy and so happy every minute.

Then there were great five-pound boxes of chocolates, glaced nuts and bonbons, and a crate of foreign fruits, with nuts, raisins, figs, and dates. There was a long, deep box from the nearest city filled with the most wonderful hothouse blossoms: roses, lilies, sweet peas, violets, gardenias, and even orchids. Courtland had never enjoyed spending money so much in all his life. He only wished he could get back to the city for a couple of hours and buy a lot more things.

To paint the picture of Mother Marshall when she sat on her new air-cushions and counted her spoons and forks--real silver forks beyond all her dreamings!--to show Father Marshall, as he wiped his spectacles and bent, beaming, over the encyclopedias or rested his gray head back against the cushions! Ah! That would be the work of an artist who could catch the glory that shines deeper than faces and reaches souls! As for Courtland, he was too much taken up watching Bonnie's face when she opened her books, looking deep into her eyes as she looked up from the little velvet case where the watch ticked softly into her wondering ears; seeing the breathlessness with which she lifted the flowers from their bed among the ferns and placed them reverently in jars and pitchers around the room.

It was a wonderful Christmas! The first real Christmas Courtland had ever known. Sitting in the dim firelight between dusk and darkness, watching Bonnie at the piano, listening to the tender Christmas music she was playing, joining his sweet tenor in with her clear soprano now and then, Courtland suddenly thought of Tennelly, off at Palm Beach, doing the correct thing in wedding trips with Gila. Poor Tennelly! How little he would be getting of the real joy of Christmas! How little he would understand the wonderful peace that settled down in the heart of his friend when, later, they all knelt in the firelight, and Father Marshall prayed, as if he were talking to One who stood there close beside him, whose companionship had been a life experience.

There were so many pictures that Courtland had to carry back with him to the seminary. Bonnie in the kitchen, with a long-sleeved, high-necked gingham ap.r.o.n on, frying doughnuts or baking waffles. Bonnie at the organ on Sunday in the little church in town, or sitting in a corner of the Sunday-school room surrounded by her seventeen boys, with her Bible open on her lap and in her face the light of heaven while the boys watched and listened, too intent to know that they were doing it. Bonnie throwing s...o...b..a.l.l.s from behind the snow fort he built her. Bonnie with the wonderful mystery upon her when they talked about the little watch and whether she might keep it. Bonnie in her window-seat with one of the books he had given her, the morning he started to go out with Father Marshall and see what was the matter with the automobile, and then came back to his room unexpectedly after his knife and caught a glimpse of her through the open door.

And that last one on the platform of Sloan's Station, waving him a smiling good-by!

Courtland had torn himself away at last, with a promise that he would return the minute his work was over, and with the consolation that Bonnie was going to write to him. They had arranged to pursue a course of study together. The future opened up rosily before him. How was it that skies had ever looked dark, that he had thought his ideals vanished, and womanhood a lost art when the world held this one pearl of a girl? Bonnie! Rose Bonnie!

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

The rest of the winter sped away quickly. Courtland was very happy. Pat looked at him enviously sometimes, yet he was content to have it so. His old friend had not quite so much time to spend with him, but when he came for a walk and a talk it was with a heartiness that satisfied. Pat had long ago discovered that there was a girl at Stephen Marshall's old home, and he sat wisely quiet and rejoiced. What kind of a girl he could only imagine from Courtland's rapt look when he received a letter, and from the exquisite photograph that presently took its place on Courtland's desk. He hoped to have opportunity to judge more accurately when the summer came, for Mother Marshall had invited Pat to come out with Courtland in the spring and spend a week, and Pat was going. Pat had something to confess to Mother Marshall.

Courtland went out twice that summer, once for a week as soon as his cla.s.ses were over. It was then that Bonnie promised to marry him.

Mother Marshall had a lot of sense and took a great liking to Pat. One day she took him up in Stephen's room and told him all about Stephen's boyhood. Pat, great big, baby giant that he was, knelt down beside her chair, put his face in her lap, and blurted out the tale of how he had led the mob against Stephen and been indirectly the cause of his death.

Mother Marshall heard him through with tears of compa.s.sion running down her cheeks. It was not quite news to her, for Courtland had told her something of the tale, without any names, when he had confessed that he held the garments of those who did the persecuting.

"There, there!" said Mother Marshall, patting the big fellow's dark head. "You never knew what you were doing, laddie! My Steve always wanted a chance to prove that he was brave. When he was just a little fellow and read about the martyrs, he used to say: 'Would I have that much nerve, mother? A fellow never can _tell_ till he's been _tested_!'

And so I'm not sorry he had his chance to stand up before you all for what he thought was right. Did you see my boy's face, too, when he died?"

"Yes," said Pat, lifting his head earnestly. "I'd just picked up a little kid he sent up to the fire-escape, and saw his face all lit up by the fire. It looked like the face of an angel! Then I saw him lift up his hands and look up like he saw somebody above, and he called out something with a sort of smile, as if he was saying he'd be up there pretty soon! And then--he fell!"

The tears were raining down Mother Marshall's cheeks by now, but there was a smile of triumph in her eyes.