“I’d like very much to know him.  Ask him to come to see me.”

“He don’t go to see people unless they need him.  I’ve been wanting him for weeks to come to supper with Bettina and me, but he’s that busy he hasn’t had a night free to do it.  When he does have one, would you mind coming down and taking supper with us instead of my sending yours up as usual?  I’d be awful proud to have you.”

“Of course I’ll come.  I’d love to.  Can’t you get him for Friday evening?  I have no engagement for Friday—­”

“It’s this minute I’ll try.”  Mrs. Mundy got up with activity.  “You two were meant to know each other.  Both of you have your own way of doing things, and you’ll have a lot to talk about.  You’ll like him and he’ll like you.  I’ll let you know if he can come as soon as I find out.”  Closing the door behind her, she left me alone.

Taking the morning paper to the window, I drew my chair close to it, pushing back the curtains that I might have all possible light as I read.  It was again snowing, and the grayness of the sky and atmosphere was reflected in the room, notwithstanding the leaping flames of the open fire, and after a while I put the paper aside and looked out of the window.

Each twig and branch of the trees and shrubs of the snow-covered Square was bent and twisted in fantastic shape by its coating of sleet, and the usual shabbiness of the little park was glorified with shining wonder; and under its spell, for the moment, I forgot all else.  Here and there a squirrel hopped cautiously from tree to tree, now standing on its branches and nibbling a nut dug from its hiding-place, now scurrying off to hide it again, and as I watched the cautious cocking of their heads I laughed aloud, and the sound recalled me to the waste I was making of time.

“This isn’t writing my letters, and they must go off on the afternoon mail.”  Getting up, I was about to turn from the window when a man and a young woman coming across the Square caught my attention and, hardly knowing why, I looked at them intently.  Something about the man was familiar.  He was barely medium height, and singularly slender, and though his head was bent that he might better hear the girl who was talking, I was sure I had seen him before.  The girl I had never seen.  She was dragging slowly, as if each step was forced, and, putting her handkerchief close to her mouth, she began to cough.

For a moment they stood still and I saw the girl had on low shoes and a shabby coat which had once been showy.  On one side of her hat was a red bird, battered and bruised, and at this comic effort at dressiness, which poor people cling to with such pathetic persistence, I smiled, and then in alarm leaned closer to the window.

They had begun their walk again, and were now at the end of the path opening on to the pavement.  I could see them clearly, and instinctively my hands went out as if to catch her, for the girl had fallen forward, and on the snow a tiny stream of red was dripping from her mouth.  Quickly the man caught her and put his handkerchief to her lips, and with equal swiftness he looked around.  He could not lay her on the snow, but she could no longer stand.  The fear in his face, the whiteness of hers, were plainly visible.  I raised the window.