I put nothing down now in this little book but just what concerns
myself--nothing of the great subjects of universal interest which
have always absorbed most of my thoughts, but just my own doings
and sayings. At this very moment I desire only to write about my
afternoon, and the way in which I spent it. I will indulge myself, and
the record may serve me. How it had snowed all day! how it did snow
this afternoon when I started out, wrapped in my waterproof, accoutred
to encounter the storm, and rejoicing in the absence of long skirts
and hooped petticoats! With my India-rubber boots I felt I could plod
through any snow-drift, and I gained a pervading sense of exhilaration
from the beating of the storm in my face. I chose a certain street I
had come to know, which ran straight through the town and on into a
more thinly-settled suburb. It was a good, clear path, and I should
be able to have a splendid walk without meeting probably more than a
dozen people in the course of it. Just as I passed the last square of
closely-built town-houses, and began to come upon the stretching white
landscape before me, as I trudged along, turning my head a little
aside to escape the brunt of the driving snow, I heard an exclamation
of surprise, and a man's voice said, "You _here_, Miss Linton?"

It was he, Mr. Lawrence. There he stood, his eyes brilliant with the
excitement of the storm, his cheek aglow with exercise, looking, as
the old women say, "the very picture of a man." I am very sensitive to
beauty, and his seems to me very great: it draws me to him.

"Yes it is I," I said (we had both stopped). "I wanted exercise and
air, and something to change my frame of mind; so I came out for a
tramp."

He turned with me, and we walked on. In a moment more he said, "Will
you take my arm? It will be easier to keep step and walk fast then."

I took it, and he looked down at me and said, with an inscrutable
smile, which haunts me yet, I suppose because I can't make out its
meaning, "Do you believe in fate?"

"If you mean by fate something which the will is powerless to resist,
against which it is unavailing to struggle, I do not," I answered. "Do
you, Mr. Lawrence?"

He laughed, not a pleasant laugh, albeit musical, but as if his smile
had been one with some hidden meaning in it: "I hardly know what I
believe. Certainly some power seems to lay traps for our wills at
times, and waylay us when they are off duty. As, for instance," he
went