It was not till the gray dusk of the winter afternoon settled down unmistakably, so that no one could beg to stay out longer, that they turned Deacon Brown’s horse toward the little brown house.

“It’s going to snow to-morrow, I think,” observed Jasper, squinting up at the leaden sky, “isn’t it, father?”

“Whoop!” exclaimed Joel, “then we will have sport, I tell you!”

“It certainly looks like it,” said old Mr. King, wrapping his fur-lined coat closer.  “Phronsie, are you sure you are warm enough?”

“Yes, Grandpapa dear,” she answered, curling up deeper in the straw at his feet.

“Do you remember how you would carry the red-topped shoes home with you, Phronsie?” cried Polly, and then away they rushed again into “Oh, don’t you remember this, and you haven’t forgotten that?” Jasper as wildly reminiscent now as the others, for hadn’t he almost as good as lived at the little brown house, pray tell?  So the Whitneys looked curiously on, without a chance to be heard in all the merry chatter; and then they drew up at the gate of the parsonage, where they were all to have supper.

When Phronsie woke up in the big bed by the side of her mother the next morning, Polly was standing over her, and looking down into her face.

“Oh, Phronsie!” she exclaimed in great glee, “the ground is all covered with snow!”

“O—­oh!” screamed Phronsie, her brown eyes flying wide open, “do give me my shoes and stockings, Polly, do!  I’ll be dressed in just one—­minute,” and thereupon ensued a merry scramble as she tumbled out of the big bed, and commenced operations, Polly running out to help Mamsie get the breakfast.

“Mush seems good now we don’t have to eat it,” cried Joel, as they all at last sat around the board.

“’Twas good then,” said Mrs. Pepper, her black eyes roving over the faces before her.

“How funny,” cried Percy Whitney, who had run over from the parsonage to breakfast, “this yellow stuff is.”  And he took up a spoonful of it gingerly.

“You don’t like it, Percy; don’t try to eat it.  I’ll make you a slice of toast,” cried Polly, springing out of her chair, “in just one moment.”

“No, you mustn’t,” cried Dick, bounding in in time to catch the last words.  “Mamma said no one was to have anything different, if we came to breakfast, from what the Peppers are going to eat.  I like the yellow stuff; give me some, do,” and he slid into a chair and passed his plate to Mrs. Pepper.

“So you shall, Dicky,” she said hastily.  “And you will never taste sweeter food than this,” giving him a generous spoonful.

“Grandpapa is eating ham and fried eggs over at the minister’s house,” contributed Dick, after satisfying his hunger a bit.

“Ham and fried eggs!” exclaimed Mother Pepper, aghast.  “Why, he never touches them.  You must be mistaken, my boy.”

“No, I’m not,” said Dick, obstinately.  “The minister’s wife said it was, and she asked me if I wouldn’t have some, and I said I was going over to the Peppers to breakfast; I’d rather have some of theirs.  And Grandpapa said it was good—­the ham and fried eggs was—­and he took it twice; he did, Mrs. Pepper.”