“Oh! do come in, Mr. Clavering!” she said, as she stood guarding the lamp from the furious wind that swept in the wild surges of the snow. “What a night for any mortal to be out in.” “And yet I must ask Mrs. Heritage to venture into it,” said Mr. Clavering. “She will soon be ready,” said Mrs. Priddo, as a matter of course, leading the way into a large but very plainly-furnished room. She then took Mr. Clavering’s cloak, which in the brief moment of leaving the carriage, and mounting the stairs, was covered with a white load. This she gave to another servant to shake out, and then breaking up a large coal on the fire, called the “raking-coal” in that part of the country, and which is put on to burn slowly through the night, she immediately set on a small kettle to boil water for coffee. In a few minutes a tray with tea-cups was set on the table, and soon after Mrs. Heritage entered, wrapped in a thick cloak, and with a black quilted hood on her head. As she advanced to take the hand of Henry Clavering, he was struck with her resemblance to some handsome middle-aged abbess, her fine, solemn, but kindly features, showing with a monastic gravity and grace within her hood. “I fear thou bringest us but indifferent tidings of thy dear father’s health,” she said, most sympathetically. Henry found himself unable to reply, but sat down, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed violently. “We must not grieve too much,” said Mrs. Heritage; “all things are in our Father’s hand, and are surely for the best. He does not afflict us willingly, and he afflicts us only to instruct and improve. Let me give thee a cup of coffee; we must not delay.” She handed a cup of warm coffee to Henry, which he took and held mechanically. “Drink it, dear friend,” she said, “it will do thee good on our way,” and ringing the bell, she said, taking up another cup and handing it to the servant, “give that to the coachman: poor man, what a night for him.” “And what a night for you!” said Henry Clavering. “How can I ask you to brave such a night? and yet your presence would be such a comfort to my dear father.” “Dear friend,” said Mrs. Heritage, smiling tenderly, “it is what our dear Lord expects of us. In life or in death, it is our duty and our privilege to follow Him. Now, shall we go?” Henry Clavering had set down his cup of coffee untasted. Mrs. Heritage, however, compelled him to take it, and having taken one herself, and tied a warm woollen handkerchief around her throat, she led the way to the door. Henry Clavering gave her his arm down the steps, where Sylvanus Crook stood with the carriage-door in his hand ready to open it and shut them in, looking more like a pillar of snow than a man, and the coachman on his seat, looking a living snow-pile.