It was one cold morning in December, when the snow was thick on the ground, and a luxuriant fire was blazing on every hearth in the village, and when nobody living would have thought of visiting, except Miss Lachevers, the housekeeper of John Doe, next door neighbor to the Brigses, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. As I said, it was cold—extremely cold; but Miss Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane, did not regard cold weather. Now, whether a _young_ lady, living to the age of forty odd, becomes invulnerable to the piercing air of a December morning, or whether the young lady in question was differently constituted from other people, I shall not attempt to decide—probably the latter. Nevertheless, on this same morning, almost as soon as the sun showed his face, Miss Lachevers peeped in at the door of Allen Brigs. Mr. Brigs was drying the morning’s paper by the fire, while Mrs. Brigs busied herself “clearing away” the breakfast table. Solomon and Nanny were both reading from the same book, the story of “Aladdin’s Lamp.” “Good mornin’ to you,” said Miss Lachevers, introducing her body as well as her head—“cool mornin’ this.” “Rather,” replied Mr. Brigs senior, laying down the paper and rubbing the palms of his hands hard enough together to erase the skin. “Come to the fire, Betty—be seated—have off your bonnet.” The finishing clause of this address proceeded from the voluble tongue of Mrs. Brigs; and Nanny arose from her seat to hand Miss Lachevers a chair. “Don’t trouble yourself, child—I never have time to sit. I must go back in one second. It’s trot, trot, from mornin’ till night, with me. I just stepped in,” she continued, turning her eyes on Mrs. Brigs, “to ask you all if you’ve hearn the news?” “What news?” inquired Mr. Brigs senior, glancing first at the paper on the chair and then at the early visiter—“any body dead or dying—or any steamship busted—or any thing of that species?” “Oh, no!” said Miss Lachevers, “nothin’ of that are character. But somethin’ more important and _novel_ than either.” All eyes were now turned toward the significant countenance of Miss Betty Lachevers, who still remained standing. Mr. Brigs senior, not exactly understanding the application of the word “novel” to the sudden intelligence of any thing new—having never heard it applied to any thing but a book—requested Miss Lachevers to explain herself. Mrs. Brigs insisted that Betty should take a chair and tell all about it; and Solomon and Nanny continued their reading, as if nothing _novel_ was going on.