Behind the man who ran up the steps, a girl of eighteen walked swiftly and firmly over the drifting heaps on the sidewalk.  Her eyes glanced upward at the sky.  There are four immense clouds, of a very light gray, with silver edges, trying to meet over a speck of blue.  They tumble and clamber, and press all for the same point; but whether the wind is too variable for them to gather in one mass, or for whatever meteorological reason, she does not guess, but she is attracted to the sky and gazes at it as she walks rapidly on.

Fred recognizes the blue eyes and glowing face, as they go past the window.  It is only Sister Minnie.  Not coming here, after all!  No.  And the clouds could not overcome and hide the blue sky.  It shone out serenely and hopefully, like Minnie’s own encouraging spirit.  She breasts the storm gallantly.  If she can only get round the corner into C—­ Street!  But here all the tempest seems collected to battle with her—­She wraps herself a little closer, and holds her breath.  A few steps more,—­she turns round,—­places her back full at the driving storm,—­and draws a long breath.  Now for it!  The flakes stop suddenly, as if awed by the quiet determination in the young face.  They fall to the ground, stilly.  The blue sky looks out, the sun shimmers white for five minutes.  Minnie walks rapidly, runs up the steps,—­rings, and takes into the house with her a full, fresh life, that vibrates from cellar to attic in harmonious energy.

The afternoon wanes.  Fred has dined.  He takes his meerschaum from the teapoy by his side and examines it critically.  How for the color?  Is it just the right shade to stop?  No.  A very little darker.  This is growing quite beautiful.  Almost like an agate.  Which of those six is the prettiest, after all?  He thinks a seventh, which he remembers lying on Little’s mantel-piece, outdoes the whole.  That of Little’s was not carved, nor silver-mounted even, and yet connoisseurs pronounced it worth a hundred and fifty dollars.  Not one of these is worth ten.  He smokes again, and looks at the cannel coal as it leaps into flame.  The room is very still; not a footfall can be heard in the house;—­partly because the doors are hung with a view to silence and the floors thickly carpeted, and partly because there are only two servants in-doors, and those men.  The cook cannot speak English, and Fred’s own man, a jewel in his way, is taciturn to a fault.  If Fred would be honest with himself, he would acknowledge that the third-hand chatter of anybody’s kitchen would often be a delightful relief to his solitude.  But then how could he follow up his system of self-culture?  That and society are quite incompatible things.  However, he yawns fearfully.