"It's snowing," exclaimed Joan at the kitchen window. "Harder and harder. Oh, Hannah, if it keeps up we shan't be able to go to Briston to-morrow for my suit."
"We'll go in the sleigh. Hughie spoke of it at breakfast."
"A brown suit," mused Joan with shining eyes. "A brown hat and furs! Think, Hannah! Furs! I do hope I shall look well in them."
"Mr. O'Neill said you would and he ought to know."
Joan laughed and blushed.
At twilight the next night she came home dressed warmly in furs and a suit the color of her eyes.
"She would wear it home, Mr. O'Neill," whispered Hannah on ahead. "And all, I think, to surprise you."
Often afterward Kenny remembered her there in the half twilight of the kitchen, joyously crying out his name. There had been a glimmer of shining tin, a halo of light from the tilted stove-lids, purple at the window panes and beyond snow and the distant tinkle of sleighbells in the barn. Hetty, he remembered, had lighted the kitchen lamp and gasped. A lovely child, proud and mischievous! Her youth startled him.
In a week she was ready and eager to go but the day of farewell found her clinging to Hannah in a panic.
When at last the old Craig carriage creaked slowly away down the lane with Hannah and Hetty waving from the farm-porch, the spirit of adventure flickered forlornly out and left her sobbing.