WHEN Elias woke up Sunday morning, he saw that it was snowing. He lay abed for a while, with eyes turned upon his window-pane, and watched the snow-flakes float lightly and silently earthward through the still air. The street below was noisy with the sound of shovels scraping the pavement. The daylight had caught a deathlike pallor from the whiteness round about. Elias wondered whether he would be expected in Sixty-third Street, despite the storm. He got up and dressed, all the while balancing this question in his mind. But presently the weather itself decided for him. The storm ceased. The snow fell no more. The sun came out. He went up-town, entered Redwood's parlor, and sat down facing the folding-doors that led into the back room. He was not in love with her. She was a pretty and pleasant girl, and all that; but he was not in love with her, and never would be. This is what he had repeated to himself again and again during the past few days. So be it. But then why--when all at once she appeared in the opening of the folding-doors, and advanced toward him, proffering her hand, and wishing him good-morning--why did his heart stop beating? Why did his breath become labored and tremulous? Why did his lips quiver, his cheeks burn? Why should the sight of her have had this effect upon a man who did not love her, who was not even on the point of loving her? And then, when he took the proffered hand in his, and gazed down at her face, and breathed the air that her presence sweetened, why was his breast suddenly pierced by a strange emotion, half a pain, half an ecstatic pleasure, and why did he have to exert his utmost self-control, to keep from catching her in his arms, and kissing her? What is the psychology of these phenomena, if he did not love her? She wore the same blue gown that she had worn at all their sittings; but it seemed to him that her face was paler, and that her eyes were larger and darker, than their wont. She bade him good-morning and withdrew her hand, and remained standing before him; and he remained standing before her, vainly striving to think of something appropriate to say. But--such perturbation did her mere nearness cause him--his senses were dispersed, his tongue was tied. At last, however, he contrived to articulate five words. The sentiment was neither very novel nor very witty; but it was at least creditable, and, let us trust, sincere. “I hope you are well?” “No,” she answered, “I don't feel very well.” “Indeed? I--I hope it is nothing serious.” “Oh, no; only a headache. And I feel lazy and chilly. I'm afraid I have caught a cold.” “Then I shan't think of letting you sit for me this morning. We'll wait about our next sitting till you are better.” “It's too bad to delay you so.” “No, no, not at all. It won't make the slightest difference. And now, I know you ought to go and lie down. So I'll take myself off. Good-by.”