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Perseveringly the snowflakes descended. They continued to fall, fall, fall, for another thirty-six hours. The wind next morning, though, had stopped, and debris of yesterday's storm had been removed. A trackless white garment of snow spread to the furthest reaches of Barracks Hill.
“This is all very weird,” said Ruth to Miranda, as, side by side, they sat and gazed on leagues and leagues of the white silence. “Miranda, this is all very well—Blizzards are very stirring; simple homely pleasures are very pleasing, this landscape is very beautiful, but,——-” Ruth suppressed a yawn.
“Besides, why will young men make geese of themselves? One can't get away from him, Miranda; a Blizzard even, does not keep him away! Miranda! If there's an object, my dear kitten, I detest, it's a sentimental young man.”
“Uncle,” said Ruth, nonchalantly, to General Adgate that evening after supper, as, with Miranda purring snugly beside her, the three sat together in the drawing-room, “I have an invitation from the Bolingbrokes, in Washington. They want me to come to them for a visit. Would you—would you miss me very much?” she coaxed, and she went to him and laid a caressing hand on the old man's cheek—“would you mind, very much, if I were to accept?”
“Mind, my dear?” General Adgate looked at her. “Who am I to say mind? You are your own mistress. Miss you? That's another pair of sleeves.”
“But suppose I bring them back with me,—I mean the Bolingbrokes,” laughed she. “They're such dears.... You'd fall in love with her, the sauciest sprite in Christendom. And he'll welcome the occasion to talk international Politics with you! I believe,” Ruth teased,—she drew up the Empire settle before the fire, she took Miranda to her knees and sat down again; “I believe that it's my Duty—to go—to go fetch them—to play with you.” With a final nod of decision Miss Adgate placed two small, elaborately shod feet, in a pair of high-heeled, steel-embroidered Florentine shoes, upon the fender; she began, with equal decision, to remove the wrappers from The Athenoum, The Saturday Review and a couple of Morning Posts.
“Go—my dear,” said the old man gently.
“Dear me! I feel like a brute,” thought Miss Adgate. “What will he do if I return to England? Oh, why will people get fond of people!”
Miranda purred.... The fire responded; a crisp, little musical crepitation; the flames licked the wood, the logs consumed themselves, in a cadenced song of happy Death and blessed Eternity. Punctured by this music silence entered, cozily, warmly descended upon the New England drawing-room.