snow was falling thick and fast, and was blown by the wind into
little mounds almost as soon as it came down. She was fairly blown
inside the door of the post-office, feathery flakes adorning her from
head to foot.

Mr. Hugh Monteith had also come to the post-office. He had merely
stepped across the street from his banking-house, and stood waiting
for the afternoon mail to be distributed. He turned his head
carelessly as the door opened to admit Edna. She took off the veil
that enveloped her head, shook and brushed herself, and walked over
to the stove. Then Mr. Monteith's inner consciousness told him that
there was the very face he had been in search of for years. Then he
did what was not found in his code of etiquette--he stared, although
he did retreat behind a pillar while doing so. He took in the whole
picture. The face, of that pure, clear tint that belongs only to a
certain type of brown eyes and hair, the hair gathered into a coil
at the back of the head, except one or two loose curls that strayed
down from it, the eyes sweet and serious. Mr. Monteith dealt many
hours of the day with dollars and cents, notes and bills; still, he
knew poetry when he saw it, and that golden-brown curl was to him a
bit of a poem. Then her dress was peculiar; his fastidious taste
pronounced it perfect for the occasion: walking-dress of soft, dark
brown, glinted by a lighter shade of the same colour; a jaunty brown
jacket of substantial cloth, a little brown hat, with a brown and
white wing perked on one side of it; no colour, except a soft pink
that the cold air had laid on the cheeks with delicate skill. His
quick eye noted too, the neat glove, the well-fitting little boot
poised on the hearth of the stove. She looked like a little brown
thrush about to spread its wings; but she did not fly, she walked
over to the delivery and received a package of letters and papers,