She had observed that there were large clothing establishments in Tottenham Court Road, and at one of these she purchased a suit of clothes for a small-made man. Hastening to the room she had taken she tried them on and found them too large. She went back to the shop and exchanged the suit for a smaller one, which fitted her fairly well. Then leaving the clothes behind her, she joined Constance, and remained with her till eight o'clock. "Must you go out to night, mamma?" asked the girl. "Yes, Constance," replied Emilia, "and I may not be home till late. You had better go to bed soon." "No, mamma," said Constance, "I will wait up for you." She went to the window. "Mamma, you cannot possibly go out. The snow will blind you. There is not a person in the streets." "I must go, dear child," said Emilia, firmly. "But, mamma, dear--look!" It was the night of January 16th, and a terrible snowstorm was raging. For over two weeks now the snow had been falling in London, and many of the thoroughfares were blocked with drift, which the efforts of great numbers of laborers could not remove; and on this night the tempest had reached its height. So engrossed had Emilia been in the task which had brought her from her happy home in Geneva that she thought little of the storms of nature which she had encountered as she trudged through the white-carpeted thoroughfares of the city. What physical sufferings was she not prepared to bear, and to bear cheerfully, for the sake of her beloved child? Only when her strength gave way would she yield, and she was sustained now by an abnormal strength which enabled her to endure that from which on ordinary occasions she would have shrunk. During this trying period of her life her powers of endurance were astonishing. "You will not go out in such a storm, mamma!" "Do not try to dissuade me, darling, I must go. Do not fear for me; God is watching over me. I shall be quite safe." "Let me go with you," pleaded Constance. "Impossible. You know, dear child, I always do what I believe to be right; I am doing it now, and you must not thwart me, nor make things more difficult for me than they are." "Are they difficult, mamma!" asked Constance, in a tone of tender solicitude. This was the first time her mother had hinted at difficulties, and the admission had slipped from Emilia unawares. "Yes, dear, but I cannot tell you what they are. Perhaps the time may come when I shall tell you all, but for the present trust in me, have faith in me." The solemnity of her voice had its effect, and Constance no longer attempted to prevail upon her. "Are you warm enough, mamma?" "Yes, dear child, and my boots are dry and thick. God bless my darling, and shield her from harm."