"Such a deep snow!"
"Five or six inches, at least!"
"I tell you, that fire looks dandy!"
"Phil fell down just below Bob's gate."
"Good evening, Miss Bessie. So jolly of you to let us come!"
"I am ever so glad to have you care to come, boys. But come right in to the fire and dry those wet feet. Phil, I am glad to see you wore rubber boots."
"They're all full of snow where I fell down," answered Phil, as he struggled to pull them off. "Here, Bob, help a fellow, will you?"
And the boots came off with a jerk, while a shower of half-melted snow proved the truth of his statement.
As the lads drew their chairs to the fire and prepared to toast their toes, a moment must be given up to glancing at them, as they sit recounting to their hostess their varied experiences in the storm.
At her left hand sat Phil Cameron, a short, slight, delicate-looking boy of thirteen, whose gray eyes, large mouth, pug nose, and freckled face laughed from morning till night. Everybody liked Phil, and Phil liked everybody in return. His invariable good temper, and a certain headlong fashion he had of going into the interest of the moment, made him a favorite with the boys; while his elders admired him for his charming manners and his wonderful soprano voice, for he and Rob had the best voices in the little village choir. Though not overwhelmed with too much conscience, Phil was a thoroughly good boy, and one that his teachers and older friends petted without knowing exactly why they did so.