O’Neil’s living-quarters consisted of a good-sized room adjoining the office-building.  Pausing at the door, he told his visitors: 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but your zeal is utterly misplaced.  I live like a pasha, in the midst of debilitating luxuries, as you will see for yourselves.”  He waved them proudly inside.

The room was bare, damp, and chill; it was furnished plentifully, but it was in characteristically masculine disorder.  The bed was tumbled, the stove was half filled with cold ashes, the water pitcher on the washstand had frozen.  In one corner was a heap of damp clothing, now stiff with frost.

“Of course, it’s a little upset,” he apologized.  “I wasn’t expecting callers, you know.”

“When was it made up last?” Eliza inquired, a little weakly.

“Yesterday, of course.”

“Are you sure?”

“Now, see here,” he said, firmly; “I haven’t time to make beds, and everybody else is busier than I am.  I’m not in here enough to make it worth while—­I go to bed late, and I tumble out before dawn.”

The girls exchanged meaning glances.  Eliza began to lay off her furs.

“Not bad, is it?” he said, hopefully.

Natalie picked up the discarded clothing, which crackled stiffly under her touch and parted from the bare boards with a tearing sound.

“Frozen!  The idea!” said she.

Eliza poked among the other garments which hung against the wall and found them also rigid.  The nail-heads behind them were coated with ice.  Turning to the table, with its litter of papers and the various unclassified accumulation of a bachelor’s house, she said: 

“I suppose we’ll have to leave this as it is.”

“Just leave everything.  I’ll get a man to clean up while you take pictures of the bridge.”  As Natalie began preparing for action he queried, in surprise, “Don’t you like my little home?”

“It’s awful,” the bride answered, feelingly.

“A perfect bear’s den,” Eliza agreed.  “It will take us all day.”

“It’s just the way I like it,” he told them; but they resolutely banished him and locked the door in his face.

“Hey!  I don’t want my things all mussed up,” he called, pounding for re-admittance; “I know right where everything is, and—­” The door opened, out came an armful of papers, a shower of burnt matches, and a litter of trash from his work-table.  He groaned.  Eliza showed her countenance for a moment to say: 

“Now, run away, little boy.  You’re going to have your face washed, no matter how you cry.  When we’ve finished in here we’ll attend to you.”  The door slammed once more, and he went away shaking his head.