"Come right along, Mum," called Mr. Coffin to the horror-stricken woman, who stood contemplating the spot where a convulsive floundering and heaving beneath the snow showed that the frozen element had not yet extinguished the fire of passion in the breasts of the buried heroes,--"come right along, and don't be scaart of them young uns. They're dreffal rude, I know; but then boys will be boys." The woman returned no answer to this time-honored defence of youthful enormities, but, hurrying on, reached the door, saying,-- "How's your health this morning, Mr. Coffin?" "Waal, Ma'am, I'm pooty middlln' well, thank ye," replied Phineas, slowly, and with an evident effort at recollection; then suddenly added, with more vivacity,-- "Why, it's Widder Janes,--a'n't it? Declare to goodness I didn't know ye, with yer hood over yer face. Walk in, Miss Janes, and see my woman,--won't ye?" "Waal, I dunno as I can stop," replied the widow, beginning, nevertheless, to shake the snow from her scanty skirts, and to stamp her numb feet, which were protected from the biting cold by a pair of old yarn socks, drawn over the shoes. "I was wantin' to see ye, a minit," continued she; "but Miss Coffin allers keeps cleaned up so slick, I don't hardly darst to come in." "Oh, waal," replied Phineas, with a chuckle of satisfaction at the compliment to his wife. "Ye look nice enough for anybody's folks. Come right in, this way." "I dunno how 'tis," continued the visitor, as she followed her host through the long entry, "that Miss Coffin can allers be so forehanded with her work, an' do sich a master sight on't, too. She don't never seem to be in the suds, Monday nor no time." Mr. Coffin had reached the door of the "keeping-room" as the widow concluded her last remark; but pausing, with his thumb upon the latch, he turned, and, looking over his shoulder, whispered, with an emphatic nod,-- "Fact is, Miss Janes, there a'n't sich a great many women jest like Miss Coffin." "There a'n't no two ways about that," murmured Miss Janes, assentingly, as the door was thrown open. "Walk right in. Here, Marthy, the widder Janes has called to see you this morning." A quiet, middle-aged woman turned round from the table, where she was fitting patches to a pair of pauper trousers. Her face was sweet, her voice low, and, though she was of middle age, every one agreed that "Miss Coffin was a real pooty woman, an' a harnsome woman too." "How does thee do, Keziah Janes? I am glad to see thee. Take a seat by the fire, and warm thee after thy cold walk." "I can't stop a minit; but it's as cheap settin' as stannin', I do suppose," replied the widow, with a nervous little laugh, as she seated herself in the proffered chair upon the clean red hearth, and commenced her business by saying,-- "I was wantin' to speak with you, Mr. Coffin, about poor Mr. Widdrinton." "Widdrinton,--who's he?" inquired Phineas.