“You are Mrs. Cullom?” said John.  “Wait a moment till I brush off the snow, and then come to the fire in the back room.  Mr. Harum will be in directly, I expect.”

“Be I much late?” she asked.  “I made ’s much haste ’s I could.  It don’t appear to me ’s if I ever see a blusteriner day, ’n I ain’t as strong as I used to be.  Seemed as if I never would git here.”

“Oh, no,” said John, as he established her before the glowing grate of the Franklin stove in the bank parlor, “not at all.  Mr. Harum has not come in himself yet.  Shall you mind if I excuse myself a moment while you make yourself as comfortable as possible?” She did not apparently hear him.  She was trembling from head to foot with cold and fatigue and nervous excitement.  Her dress was soaked to the knees, and as she sat down and put up her feet to the fire John saw a bit of a thin cotton stocking and her deplorable shoes, almost in a state of pulp.  A snow-obliterated path led from the back door of the office to David’s house, and John snatched his hat and started for it on a run.  As he stamped off some of the snow on the veranda the door was opened for him by Mrs. Bixbee.  “Lord sakes!” she exclaimed.  “What on earth be you cavortin’ ‘round for such a mornin’ ‘s this without no overcoat, an’ on a dead run?  What’s the matter?”

“Nothing serious,” he answered, “but I’m in a great hurry.  Old Mrs. Cullom has walked up from her house to the office, and she is wet through and almost perished.  I thought you’d send her some dry shoes and stockings, and an old shawl or blanket to keep her wet skirt off her knees, and a drop of whisky or something.  She’s all of a tremble, and I’m afraid she will have a chill.”

“Certain! certain!” said the kind creature, and she bustled out of the room, returning in a minute or two with an armful of comforts.  “There’s a pair of bedroom slips lined with lamb’s wool, an’ a pair of woolen stockin’s, an’ a blanket shawl.  This here petticut, ’t ain’t what ye’d call bran’ new, but it’s warm and comf’table, an’ I don’t believe she’s got much of anythin’ on ‘ceptin’ her dress, an’ I’ll git ye the whisky, but”—­here she looked deprecatingly at John—­“it ain’t gen’ally known ’t we keep the stuff in the house.  I don’t know as it’s right, but though David don’t hardly ever touch it he will have it in the house.”

“Oh,” said John, laughing, “you may trust my discretion, and we’ll swear Mrs. Cullom to secrecy.”

“Wa’al, all right,” said Mrs. Bixbee, joining in the laugh as she brought the bottle; “jest a minute till I make a passel of the things to keep the snow out.  There, now, I guess you’re fixed, an’ you kin hurry back ’fore she ketches a chill.”

“Thanks very much,” said John as he started away.  “I have something to say to you besides ‘Merry Christmas,’ but I must wait till another time.”

When John got back to the office David had just preceded him.