Under the delusive idea that it is warm, or at least not cold, I have protected my face with no veil, my hands with no mittens; so that, long before I reach the shelter of the Portugal laurels that warmly hem in and border Mrs. Huntley's little graveled sweep, the end of my nose feels like an icy promontory at a great distance from me, and my hands do not feel at all. Mrs. Huntley _is_ at home. Wise woman! I knew that she would be. I suppose that I follow on the footsteps of the butler more quickly than is usual, for, as the door opens, and before I can get a view of the inmate or inmates, I hear a hurried noise of scrambling, as of some one suddenly jumping up. For a little airy woman who looks as if one could blow her away--puff!--like a morsel of thistle-down or a snowball, what a heavy foot Mrs. Huntley has! The next moment, I am disabused. Mrs. Huntley has clearly not moved. It was not _she_ that scrambled. She is lying back in a deep arm-chair, her silky head gently denting the flowered cushion, the points of two pretty shoes slightly advanced toward the fire, and a large feather fan leisurely waving to and fro, in one white hand. Beyond the _fan_ movement she is not _doing_ any thing that I can detect. "How do you do?" say I, bustling in, in a hurry to reach the fire. "How comfortable you look! how cold it is!--Algy!!" For the enigma of the noise is solved. It was Algy who shuffled and scuffled--yes, scuffled up from the low stool which he has evidently been sharing with the pretty shoes--at Mrs. Huntley's feet, on to his long legs, on which he is now standing, not at all at ease. He does not answer. "ALGY!" repeat I, in a tone of the profoundest, accentedest surprise, involuntarily turning my back upon my hostess and facing my brother. "Well, what about me?" he cries tartly, irritated (and no wonder) by my open mouth and tragical air. "What _has_ brought you here?" I ask slowly, and with a tactless emphasis. "The fly from the White Hart," he answers, trying to laugh, but looking confused and angry. "But I mean--I thought you told me, when I asked you to Tempest this week, that you could not get away for an _hour_!" "No more I could," he answers impatiently, yet stammering; "quite unexpected--did not know when I wrote--have to be back to-night." "Will not you come nearer the fire?" says Mrs. Huntley, in her slow sugared tones, with a well-bred ignoring of our squabble. "I am sure that you must be perished with cold."