One Sunday night, at Rochester, in that pleasant house on Troup Street, there was one of those tremendous snow-storms which no longer appear to fall there as often or so deep as they did at that time. Margaretta and I were alone in the house. Alfie, our housekeeper, had gone out for the day, and we had no expectation of her being able to return through such a snow-storm. The house was built on ground which sloped down to the rear from the front level of the street. We were sitting in the dining-room, which was a sort of rear addition to the cottage, and had a veranda from which a door opened into the room, while another door led by a few steps to the cellar in which was a well--though we never used the water from it, as I mistrusted its healthfulness; indeed I had a strange feeling about that well, as though it might have been the scene of a crime. The wind coming furiously from that direction piled up the snow-drift all the height of the lower sashes of the windows, and of course blocked access to the door from without. There were often so much knocking and other sounds about that cottage that I believed it, like the others, to be haunted. Margaretta and I were making ourselves comfortable. We had drawn the table near to the stove, and upon it was one of the country mince pies, such as New York does not know, and she had just lifted the teapot when knocks of the most fearful character thundered directly under her feet. The blows implied a heavy mallet and a powerful arm, which so startled her as to cause her to let fall the teapot. Neither of us could stir from the spot. There was no cellar under this _rear_ addition to the cottage, but the door from the cellar, which was under the main building, opened into the tea-room very near to where I sat. Tremendous pounding commenced against the cellar-door, causing it to fly open and close again several times as by the same hand. Immediately after came from outside groans as from some one apparently perishing in the storm, seeming to indicate extreme suffering and anguish. As we huddled together and sat paralyzed, we heard the cheerful voice of our good Quaker friend, Mr. Willets, and a knocking at the door of a character not mysterious, and as soon as we were able to get the door open, Mr. Willets, a gust of wind, and no small drift of snow, entered together. "Well, girls, I got anxious about you, and, as Alfie is away, my wife and I thought you might have no water and wood for to-morrow morning, and it would be harder to get at you then; for this snow is going to last all night." He stayed a little while, when he found we were sufficiently provided, and then this good man and friend made his brave way out again.