“Why—why—why—none.”
“I thought so. Have you pitied yourself?”
“No, ma’am. I mean, no, Miss Lucy.”
“Then save your sympathy. One cannot miss what one has never enjoyed. For myself, I see little good of this snow. It’s made no end of trouble and expense to house owners, and filled the streets with stuff which the city will have to remove, and——”
“It’s made a heap of fun, hasn’t it? Won’t it give idle men a lot of shovelling to do? I’ve always heard them saying how glad they were when a snow-storm came; those tramps around the city buildings. I’m sure I think it’s jolly. Only I wish——”
“Well, what?”
“That I had as much money as I wanted. I’d hire the big picnic stage and have it put on runners, and I’d go ’round Newspaper Square, and the Swamp, and the asylums and—and places—and I’d give every little kid that never had a ride, I’d give him one to-morrow, as sure as I live. Oh! I wish I had it!”
Miss Armacost lost all manner of patience with this boy. If he’d only be contented with enjoying himself and let his neighbors rest. But here they were at home. How odd it looked, to see those great heaps of snow which had been shovelled from the sidewalk and piled up in banks before the houses, between the curbstone and the driveway. And over in the “Square” which filled the centre of the block the children of the bordering houses had all come out with sleds and happy laughter, and were making the old silence ring.
“Maybe, after all, anything which pleases the children is not an unmitigated annoyance,” observed Miss Armacost, reflectively.
Jefferson brought the horses to a standstill and stepped down to loosen the robes about his mistress and help her alight, if need be. But Towsley had been before him. He had pulled off his hat, thrust it under his arm, and extended his hand toward the lady, to assist her, as courteously and gracefully as any grown gentleman could have done; even if not with quite so much strength.