She started and turned pale, like the guilty creature that she was.
The rap was repeated sharply.
She jumped up, hustled the purloined letters and papers out of sight, and stood waiting.
The rap was reiterated loudly and authoritatively.
"Who's that?" she asked, trembling violently.
"It's me, Aunt Nancy! Do for goodness' sake don't keep a fellow out here in the storm till he's nearly perished. It's coming on to hail and snow like the last judgment!"
"Oh! it's you, is it, Sol? I didn't know but what it was—Do, for mercy's sake don't be talking about the last judgment, and such awful things—I declare to man, you put me all of a trimble," said Miss Nancy, by way of accounting for her palpitations, as she unbarred the door, and admitted her learned nephew. Dr. Solomon Weismann seemed dreadfully downhearted as he entered. He slowly stamped the snow from his boots, shook it off his clothes, took off his hat and his overcoat, and hung them up, and spoke—never a word! Then he drew his chair right up in front of the fire, placed a foot on each andiron, stooped over, spread his palms over the kindly blaze, and still spoke—never a word!
"Well! I'd like to know what's the matter with you to-night," said Miss
Nancy, as she went about the room looking for her knitting.
But the doctor stared silently at the fire.
"It's the latest improvement in politeness—I shouldn't wonder—not to answer your elders when they speak to you."