What was before her eyes was the Lot covered with untouched snow billowed by the high wind and glistening, here and there, where that same wind had hardened and polished the surface into a fine crust. There was the same high wall, its cement covering a trifle less smooth, perhaps, than it had been when Sally first saw it, but giving a scant foothold even yet. And the wall was capped, as it had been since it was built, with its projecting wooden roof, more weather-beaten than ever and with the moulding on the under edges warped away a trifle more, but still holding. There was snow upon that old roof in patches, but the wind had swept most of it clean. And over it all was a dull, leaden sky with more snow in it. Although all this was before her eyes, she may not have seen any of it; probably she had not. Judging from her look, it was something quite different that she saw. It may have been the early years of her marriage--very early years they must have been and very far away now--when Professor Ladue was still good to her and she still believed in him. Or, perhaps, she was passing in review the many kindnesses of Uncle John Hazen and Patty. For Patty had been kind in her own way; and what other way could she use? Every one of us has to be kind or unkind in his own way, after all, in accordance with the natures God has given us. Perhaps Mrs. Ladue was thinking of Doctor Galen's care--four years of it--or of Fox's goodness. Fox had not got over being good to them yet. And she called down blessings on his head and sighed a tremulous sigh, and looked down at the letter which she had held in her hand all this time, and she began to read it again, although she had already read it over twice. She had not got very far with her reading when the front door opened and shut. At the sound of it Mrs. Ladue came back, with a start, to the present. She flushed slightly and made a motion as if to hide the letter hastily; but she thought better of it instantly, and she held the letter in her hand, as she had done for some time. But the flush grew and flooded her face with color. And the wave of color receded, according to the manner of waves, and left her face unnaturally pale. There was the sound of steps on the stairs and the door of the room opened and Sally came in. A breath of the cold still clung about her. "Well, mother, dear," she said, stooping for a kiss, "here I am, at last. I thought I never should get out to-day." "Some poor infants have to stay after?" asked her mother. "How cold you are, Sally! Is it as bleak and dreary as it looks?" "Oh, no. It's nice enough, after you've been out a few minutes. At least it's fresh, and that's something, after hours of a schoolroom. And I don't teach infants, if you please, madam." Mrs. Ladue laughed quietly. "It's all the same to me, Sally," she replied. "I don't know the difference."