“Please walk in this way, Mr. Lloyd,” said she, and Robert followed her in.

It was a bitter night outside, and the temperature in the unused room was freezing.  The windows behind the cheap curtains were thickly furred with frost.

“Please be seated,” said Fanny.

She indicated the large easy-chair, and Robert seated himself without removing his outer coat, yet the icy cold of the cushions struck through him.

Fanny ignited a match to light the best lamp with its painted globe.  Her fingers trembled.  She had to use three matches before she was successful.

“Can’t I assist you?” asked Robert.

“No, thank you,” replied Fanny; “I guess the matches are damp.  I’ve got it now.”  Her voice shook.  She turned to Robert when the lamp was lighted, still holding the small one, which she had set for the moment on the table.  The strong double light revealed her face of abashed delight, although the young man did not understand it.  It was the solicitude of the mother for the child which dignified all coarseness and folly.

“I guess you had better keep on your overcoat a little while till I get the fire built,” said she.  “This room ain’t very warm.”

Robert tried to say something polite about not feeling cold, but the lie was too obvious.  Instead, he remarked that his coat was very warm, as it was, indeed, being lined with fur.

“I’ll have the fire kindled in a minute,” Fanny said.

“Now don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Brewster,” said Robert.  “I am quite warm in this coat, unless,” he added, lamely, “I could go out where you were sitting.”

“There’s company out there,” said Fanny, with embarrassed significance.  She blushed as she spoke, and Robert blushed also, without knowing why.

“It’s no trouble at all to start a fire,” said Fanny; “this chimney draws fine.  I’ll speak to Ellen.”

Robert, left alone in the freezing room, felt his dismay deepen.  Barriers of tragedy are nothing to those of comedy.  He began to wonder if he were not, after all, doing a foolish thing.  The hall door had been left ajar, and he presently became aware of Amabel’s little face and luminous eyes set therein.

Robert smiled, and to his intense astonishment the child made a little run to him and snuggled close to his side.  He lifted her up on his knee, and wrapped his fur coat around her.  Amabel thrust out one tiny hand and began to stroke the sable collar.

“It’s fur,” said she, with a bright, wise look into Robert’s face.

“Yes, it’s fur,” said he.  “Do you know what kind?”

She shook her head, with bright eyes still on his.

“It is sable,” said Robert, “and it is the coat of a little animal that lives very far north, where it is as cold and colder than this all the time, and the ice and snow never melts.”

Suddenly Amabel slipped off his knee, pushing aside his caressing arm with a violent motion.  Then she stood aloof, eying him with unmistakable reproof and hostility.  Robert laughed.