It was winter now in truth. The basement room where the family took their meals in ordinary, was a very warm and comfortable apartment; handsomely furnished; only Rotha always hated it for being half underground. The fire was burning splendidly; Mr. Busby sat in his easy chair at the side of the hearth next the light; Mrs. Busby was at the table preparing breakfast. Rotha stood by the fire and thought how she should begin. The sun shone very bright outside the windows. But New York had become a desert. "Mr. Busby, will you come to the table?" said his wife. "Rotha, I am going to see about your cloak to-day." Rotha could not say "thank you." She began to eat, for form's sake. "What are you going to get her, mother?" Antoinette enquired. "You can come along and see." "Aunt Serena," said Rotha, trying to speak un-concernedly, "what has become of Mr. Digby--Mr. Southwode, I mean." "I do not know, my dear," the lady answered smoothly. "Why haven't I seen him?" "My dear, you have not seen anybody. Some day I hope you will be able; but I begin to despair of the dress-makers." "If my tailor served me so, I should give him up," said Mr. Busby's quick, husky utterance. "Yes, papa, but you wouldn't, if there was only one tailor you liked." "Isn't there more than one mantua-maker for all this big city?" "My dear, Miss Hubbell suits me, and is uncommonly reasonable, for the quality of her work; and she has so much custom, we cannot get her without speaking long beforehand." "Why don't you speak, then?" "When was Mr. Digby--Mr. Southwode here, aunt Serena?" Rotha began again. "A few nights ago. I do not recollect. Mr. Busby, as you go down town will you stop at Dubois's and order the piano tuner? The piano is quite out of tune. And I wish you would order me a bag of coffee, if you say you can get it more reasonably at your down town place." "Very well, my dear." The words used to amuse Rotha, they rolled out so, brisk and sharp, like the discharge from a gun. To-day she was impatient. "Aunt Serena, I have been wanting to see Mr. Southwode very much." No answer. Mrs. Busby attended to her breakfast as if she did not hear. "When can I?" Rotha persisted. "I am sure, I cannot say. Mr. Busby, I will trouble you for a little of that sausage." "This sausage has too much pepper in it, mamma." "And too little of something else," added Mr. Busby. "Of what, Mr. Busby?" "That I do not know, my dear; it belongs to your department." "But even the Chaldean magicians could not interpret the dream that was not told to them," Mrs. Busby suggested, with smiling satisfaction. "How can I have the missing quality supplied, if you cannot tell me what it is you miss?" "You can divine, my dear, quite as well as the Chaldean magicians." "Then if that is true, aunt Serena," Rotha put in desperately, "will you please tell me where Mr. Southwode is?"