One blustering day, when the wind shrieked around the street corners, and carried onward clouds of fine, penetrating dust, intermingled with the falling snow, whirling both into every opened doorway with malicious violence, a man wrapped in a great, shaggy overcoat, opened the door of the little store kept by Merna. There had been no customers all the morning; unless otherwise compelled, all were glad to remain within doors. Merna came from the sitting room in the rear, and walked behind the counter awaiting her customer’s pleasure; with his back toward her, he had taken off his fur cap, and was knocking out the snow against the door. Something familiar in the movements and attitude gave her a start, but it was not until he had unbuttoned his coat, and turned toward her, that she really recognized him; he walked to the counter, reaching out both hands, his blond face one broad smile. It was Ned—stalwart, hearty, and as usual—laughing. Merna stood like one shocked, a terrible weakness assailed her; she saw the laughing face but dimly, his voice sounded strange and far off. His robust tones aroused her: “Aren’t you going to shake hands with me, after I have had such a time finding you?” he asked. “Why did you seek me?” cried Merna passionately, surprised out of her usual self-control. “Because I wanted to see you, to be sure!” The same laughing insouciance as of old, so impossible to understand; it might be pleasant raillery, it was quite as likely to be sarcasm. “I wish that you had stayed away—after three years!” her voice rising shrilly. He walked deliberately around the end of the counter, caught both her hands and held them firmly, his warm breath sweeping her cheek, his face so very near her own. “Did I not tell you that I should find you? I shall never lose sight of you!” his face still lower, his lips touching her cheek caressingly. “I am so glad to see you, my Merna! Say, ‘Ned I am glad that you are here!’” he whispered tenderly. Ah, well! A woman’s a woman! and poor girl, her heart throbbed so happily; it seemed so good to have this great strong man holding her hands, whispering to her in this tender tone; what if the words did not promise much, the tone conveyed a world of tender meaning, and—she was so lonely. She had been so fiercely angry at him that she thought she hated him; she found that it was the act that she hated, and not the man; he held his old place in her heart. Presently she was shedding happy tears on his broad shoulder, and looking happily up into his face through her wet lashes; thrilling from her foolish little heart to the ends of her fingers with the delight of his very presence.