. . .  He reproached himself, then, for the reproach his leaving her had been; he had a susceptible and annoying conscience, this unfortunate Richard.  He found it hard to get to sleep, that night; and was kept awake long after he had planned how he would make up to his mother for having received her “legend” so freezingly.  What kept him awake, after that, was a dim, rhythmic sound coming from the house next door, where a holiday dance was in progress—­music far away and slender:  fiddle, ’cello, horn, bassoon, drums, all rollicking away almost the night-long, seeping through the walls to his restless pillow.  Finally, when belated drowsiness came, the throbbing tunes mingled with his half-dreams, and he heard the light shuffling of multitudinous feet over the dancing-floor, and became certain that Laura’s were among them.  He saw her, gliding, swinging, laughing, and happy and the picture did not please him:  it seemed to him that she would have been much better employed sitting in black to write of a hopeless love.  Coquetting with four suitors was not only inconsistent; it was unbecoming.  It “suited Cora’s style,” but in Laura it was outrageous.  When he woke, in the morning, he was dreaming of her:  dressed as Parthenia, beautiful, and throwing roses to an acclaiming crowd through which she was borne on a shield upon the shoulders of four Antinouses.  Richard thought it scandalous.

His indignation with her had not worn off when he descended to breakfast, but he made up to his mother for having troubled her.  Then, to cap his gallantry, he observed that several inches of snow must have fallen during the night; it would be well packed upon the streets by noon; he would get a sleigh, after lunch, and take her driving.  It was a holiday.

She thanked him, but half-declined.  “I’m afraid it’s too cold for me, but there are lots of nice girls in town, Richard, who won’t mind weather.”

“But I asked you!” It was finally left an open question for the afternoon to settle; and, upon her urging, he went out for a walk.  She stood at the window to watch him, and, when she saw that he turned northward, she sank into a chair, instead of going to give Joe Varden his after-breakfast instructions, and fell into a deep reverie.

Outdoors, it was a biting cold morning, wind-swept and gray; and with air so frosty-pure no one might breathe it and stay bilious:  neither in body nor bilious in spirit.  It was a wind to sweep the yellow from jaundiced cheeks and make them rosy; a wind to clear dulled eyes; it was a wind to lift foolish hearts, to lift them so high they might touch heaven and go winging down the sky, the wildest of wild-geese.

. . .  When the bell rang, Laura was kneeling before the library fire, which she had just kindled, and she had not risen when Sarah brought Richard to the doorway.  She was shabby enough, poor Cinderella! looking up, so frightened, when her prince appeared.