I looked out the window. There was a drizzling fog. The shops opposite looked dreary and uninviting, and the people who were hastening down Broadway had all the same miserable appearance, looking spectral in the fog. My heart sank. If it were the same kind of weather on the morrow there would be no chance of having Winifred with me. In the first place, she would not be allowed to come; and in the second, there would be very little pleasure in bringing her down from the convent just to spend a few hours shut up in my apartments at the hotel.
I dressed and went out. The streets were glazed over with a thin coat of frost, which made the walking treacherous and unsafe. The snowfall of two or three days before had entirely disappeared. I picked my way along, making one more in the procession of spectres, till I reached the nearest elevated station, which was in the square at Thirty-third Street, near the Herald building. I was soon flying through the air, and in the twinkling of an eye was almost in the heart of the business portion of the great "down-town." Warehouses arose on all sides: from some came a fragrant odor telling of coffee and spices; from others flashed visions of delicate china, rich bronzes, and beautiful glassware. And finally I was set down within a block or so of my destination.
I picked my way carefully along the narrow lane-like street, and emerged just opposite old St. Peter's, the mother-church of New York. Its somber walls looked gray and dismal in that dreary fog; but within it was warm and cheerful, and imposing in a massive, old-fashioned way. I prayed earnestly for the success of all our scheming—that is, Niall's and mine; and, above all, for the happy reunion of father and daughter.
After that I went out again to purchase my statue. I was now in the region of the Catholic publishers, which is full of many memories of other days and the various phases of Catholic life in New York. There much has been done for the Catholic cause; much has been discussed, much has been attempted, and many attempts have failed. It is historic ground. I bought my statue and hurried home, glad to be housed on that chilly and disagreeable day. I had a few other preparations to make, on the chance that the weather would clear up; but I resolved to leave them till the morning, when they might be easily accomplished by the aid of the telephone.
CHAPTER XIX. WINIFRED GOES SIGHT-SEEING.
The next morning I woke earlier than usual; and, getting up at once, looked out of the window. Every trace of the fog had vanished, and there was the sun leaping and dancing as merrily as if it were midsummer instead of December. I hurried off to Mass, and got back again, to take a hasty breakfast and sit down in my room to wait for Winifred. It was about ten o'clock when, with my eyes glued to the window, I saw her little face looking out of the carriage which I had sent for her. I ran down to the ladies' entrance to bring her in. She looked brighter and better than I had seen her since she left Ireland. She wore her black school costume, but her hair was no longer brushed painfully down to comparative smoothness: it broke out into the same saucy curls I knew of old. She darted out of the carriage and in at the open door, throwing herself into my arms.
"Here I am!" she cried. "And so glad to see you again!"
"I began to be afraid yesterday," I observed, "that we were both going to be disappointed."