THE winter of 18— was marked with unusual severity. I remember it the
more vividly because of the incident which follows.
One night I sat by the fire, absorbed in reading. It was just the
evening to enjoy a good book and home comforts, for the storm, which
had been raging through the day, and still whirling the snow against
the windows, repressed all desire to go abroad, and shut out intruders.
I read on, till, through the roar of the tempest, I heard the muffled
tones of a neighboring church clock strike eleven. Another hour had
nearly passed when I was aroused by a knock at the door, and, opening
it, a woman, clad in a thin shawl covered with snow, came timidly in.
Her eyes were swollen with weeping, and her whole appearance expressed
deep sorrow.