Miss Carlyle was one of your strong-minded ladies, who never condescended to be ill.  Of course, had she been attacked with scarlet fever, or paralysis, or St. Vitus’ dance, she must have given in to the enemy; but trifling ailments, such as headache, influenza, sore throat, which other people get, passed her by.  Imagine, therefore, her exasperation at finding her head stuffed up, her chest sore, and her voice going; in short, at having, for once in her life, caught a cold like ordinary mortals.

“What’s the time, I wonder?” she exclaimed.

Mr. Carlyle looked at his watch.  “It is just nine, Cornelia.”

“Then I think I shall go to bed.  I’ll have a basin of arrowroot or gruel, or some slop of that sort, after I’m in it.  I’m sure I have been free enough all my life from requiring such sick dishes.”

“Do so,” said Mr. Carlyle.  “It may do you good.”

“There’s one thing excellent for a cold in the head, I know.  It’s to doubt your flannel petticoat crossways, or any other large piece of flannel you may conveniently have at hand, and put it on over your night-cap.  I’ll try it.”

“I would,” said Mr. Carlyle, smothering an irreverent laugh.

She sat on five minutes longer, and then left, wishing Mr. Carlyle good-night.  He resumed his reading; but another page or two concluded the article, upon which Mr. Carlyle threw the book on the table, rose and stretched himself, as if tired of sitting.

He stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, and stood on the hearthrug. 
“I wonder if it snows still?” he exclaimed to himself.

Proceeding to the window, one of those opening to the ground, he threw aside the half of the warm crimson curtain.  It all looked dull and dark outside.  Mr. Carlyle could see little what the weather was, and he opened the window and stepped half out.

The snow was falling faster and thicker than ever.  Not at that did Mr. Carlyle start with surprise, if not with a more unpleasant sensation; but a feeling a man’s hand touch his, and at finding a man’s face nearly in contact with his own.

“Let me come in, Mr. Carlyle, for the love of life!  I see you are alone.  I’m dead beat, and I don’t know but I’m dodged also.”

The tones struck familiarly on Mr. Carlyle’s ear.  He drew back mechanically, a thousand perplexing sensations overwhelming him, and the man followed him into the room—­a white man, as Lucy called her father.  Aye, for he had been hours and hours on foot in the snow; his hat, his clothes, his eyebrows, his large whiskers, all were white.  “Lock the door, sir,” were his first words.  Need you be told that it was Richard Hare?

Mr. Carlyle fastened the window, drew the heavy curtains across, and turned rapidly to lock the two doors—­for there were two to the room, one of them leading into the adjoining one.  Richard meanwhile took off his wet smock-frock of former memory—­his hat, and his false black whiskers, wiping the snow from the latter with his hand.