"You come too, Daddy." Marian tugged at Charles's arm.
"No. I'm going to have a nice, quiet morning with my book." He stepped hastily out of the path of Letty's assault.
"I've left the potatoes and roast on the shelf." Catherine looked in at his study door. "Could you think to light the oven and stick them in, at twelve, if we aren't back? Mother's coming in for dinner."
"I'll remember." Marian giggled at her father's grimace, and they were off, the four of them.
On the slope Catherine chose as safe, the snow had been worn thin by countless runners. Spencer and Marian had one Flyer, and Catherine drew Letty on the small sled up and down the walk, to the loud tune of "Gid-ap! horsey! Gid-ap!" until she was breathless and flushed. Then she coaxed Letty into the construction of a snow house, while she sat on the bench beside her. The river was gray under a lead sky; the steep shores of New Jersey were mottled tawny and white. Spencer and Marian puffed up the hill, to sit solemnly beside her, their legs dangling. Letty, a small scarlet ball in her knit bloomers and sweater, an aureole of yellow fluff about her round, pink face, crooned delightedly as she patted her lumps of snow.
"An', Muvver," went on Marian, "the little boy made his dog drag the sled up the hill, and the doggie cried."
"He had snow in his toes," insisted Spencer. "He didn't cry because he had to drag the sled."
"Yes, he did. It was a very heavy sled."
Some one stopped at the end of the bench, and Catherine glanced up.