The clipped cones of pine trees adorned the slopes,
and made parallel rows along the brick walk, leading to the white
portico that formed the entrance to the house. Light shone from a
half dozen windows.
It seemed fine and glowing to Harry. His father loved his home, and so
did he. The twilight had now darkened into night and the snow still
drove, but the house stood solid and square to wind and winter, and the
flame from its windows made broad bands of red and gold across the snow.
Harry went briskly up the walk and then stood for a few moments in the
portico, shaking the snow off his overcoat and looking back at the town,
which lay in a warm cluster in the hollow below. Many lights twinkled
there, and it occurred to Harry that they would twinkle later than usual
that night.
He opened the door, hung his hat and overcoat in the hall, and entered
the large apartment which his father and he habitually used as a reading
and sitting room. It was more than twenty feet square, with a lofty
ceiling. A home-made carpet, thick, closely woven, and rich in colors
covered the floor. Around the walls were cases containing books,
mostly in rich bindings and nearly all English classics.
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