mit Edna. She took off the veil
that enveloped her head, shook and brushed herself, and walked over
to the stove. Then Mr. Monteith's inner consciousness told him that
there was the very face he had been in search of for years. Then he
did what was not found in his code of etiquette--he stared, although
he did retreat behind a pillar while doing so. He took in the whole
picture. The face, of that pure, clear tint that belongs only to a
certain type of brown eyes and hair, the hair gathered into a coil
at the back of the head, except one or two loose curls that strayed
down from it, the eyes sweet and serious. Mr. Monteith dealt many
hours of the day with dollars and cents, notes and bills; still, he
knew poetry when he saw it, and that golden-brown curl was to him a
bit of a poem. Then her dress was peculiar; his fastidious taste
pronounced it perfect for the occasion: walking-dress of soft, dark
brown, glinted by a lighter shade of the same colour; a jaunty brown
jacket of substantial cloth, a little brown hat, with a brown and
white wing perked on one side of it; no colour, except a soft pink
that the cold air had laid on the cheeks with delicate skill. His
quick eye noted too, the neat glove, the well-fitting little boot
poised on the hearth of the stove. She looked like a little brown
thrush about to spread its wings; but she did not fly, she walked
over to the delivery and received a package of letters and papers,
asking in low, clear tones, "Is the Eastern mail in?" The voice was
in keeping with eyes, and hair, and dress--pure, refined, cultured.

Mr. Monteith's resolution was quickly made; he secured his mail and
followed Edna. "Who could she be? He supposed he knew all the young
ladies in town, but where did this revelation of loveliness drop
from?" He turned corner after corner as she did, not caring where he
went, only so that he kept her in view. To his astonishment he soon
found himself in the open country. It was not a day that he would
have chosen for a pleasure-walk in the country: the snow eddied and
whirled, and almost blinded him; but if he lost his face, his ideal
realised, should he ever find it again? There was no choice, so on he
strode, congratulating himself that he happened to have on an
overcoat and heavy boots.

The little brown-clad figure ahead of him sped briskly on, and faster
and faster came the snow. Things were beginning to look serious;
the wind roared and howled through the pine woo