The only light in Miss Lavinia’s den, other than the fire, was a low lamp, with a soft-hued amber shade, so that the room seemed to draw close about one like protecting arms, country fashion, instead of seeking to turn one out, which is the feeling that so many of the stately apartments in the great city houses give me.

When I am indoors I want space to move and breathe in, of course, but I like to feel intrenched; and only when I open the door and step outside, do I wish to give myself up to space, for Nature is the only one who really knows how to handle vastness without overdoing it.

As we sat there in silence I watched the play of firelight on Sylvia’s face, and the same thought seemed to cross it as she closed her eyes and nestled back in Miss Lavinia’s funny little fat sewing chair, that was like a squab done in upholstery.  Then, as the clock struck six, she started, rubbed her eyes, and crossed the hall to her room half in a dream.

“She is as like her Grandmother Latham when I first saw her, as a girl of twenty-one can be like a woman of fifty,” said Miss Lavinia, from the lounge close at my elbow.  “Not in colouring or feature, but in poise and gesture.  The Lathams were of Massachusetts stock, and have, I imagine, a good deal of the Plymouth Rock mixture in their back-bones.  Her father has the reputation, in fact, of being all rock, if not quite of the Plymouth variety.  Well, I think she will need it, poor child; that is, if any of the rumours that are beginning to float in the air settle to the ground.”

“Meaning what?” I asked, half unconsciously, and paying little heed, for I then realized that the daily letter from father had not arrived; and Lucy at that moment came in, lit the lamps, and began to rattle the hair-brushes in Miss Lavinia’s bedroom, which I took as a signal for me to leave.

The door-bell rang.  It was Evan; but before I met him halfway on the stairs, he called up:  “I telephoned home an hour ago, and they are all well.  The storm held over last night there.  Father says it was the most showy snow they have had for years, and he was delayed in getting his letter to the post.”

“Is that all?” I asked, as I got down far enough to rest my hands on his shoulders.

“Yes; the wires buzzed badly and did not encourage gossip.  Ah!” (this with an effort to appear as if it was an afterthought), “I told him I thought that you would not wait for me tomorrow, but probably go home on the 9:30.  Not that I really committed you to it if you have other plans!”

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