"Old Mrs. Luce. Oh, goodness, how my heart's going!"
"Why don't you open the door, Eva?"
"Why don't you? It's your place."
"But, doggone it, cain't you see—I mean feel—that I ain't got hardly any clothes on? I'd ketch my death o' cold, an' besides—"
"Well, I ain't got as much on as you have. You got socks on an'—"
"But supposin' it's a woman," protested he. "You wouldn't want a woman to see me lookin' like this, would you? Go ahead an'—"
"I suppose you'd like to have a man see me like this. I ain't used to receivin' men in—but, say, whoever it was, is gone. Didn't you hear the steps? Open the door, Anderson. See what it is."
And so, after much urging, Anderson Crow unbolted his front door and turned the knob. The wind did the rest. It almost blew the door off its hinges, carrying Mr. and Mrs. Crow back against the wall. A gale of snow swept over them.
"Gee!" gasped Anderson, crimping his toes. Mrs. Crow was peering under his arm.
"Look there!" she cried. Close to the door a large bundle was lying.