the state of the weather determined.

The sole refuge offered from the contemplation of this
depressing waste was the sight of the Bunner Sisters' window. Its
panes were always well-washed, and though their display of
artificial flowers, bands of scalloped flannel, wire hat-frames,
and jars of home-made preserves, had the undefinable greyish tinge
of objects long preserved in the show-case of a museum, the window
revealed a background of orderly counters and white-washed walls in
pleasant contrast to the adjoining dinginess.

The Bunner sisters were proud of the neatness of their shop
and content with its humble prosperity. It was not what they had
once imagined it would be, but though it presented but a shrunken
image of their earlier ambitions it enabled them to pay their rent
and keep themselves alive and out of debt; and it was long
since their hopes had soared higher.

Now and then, however, among their greyer hours there came one
not bright enough to be called sunny, but rather of the silvery
twilight hue which sometimes ends a day of storm. It was such an
hour that Ann Eliza, the elder of the firm, was soberly enjoying as
she sat one January evening in the back room which served as
bedroom, kitchen and parlour to herself and her sister Evelina. In
the shop the blinds had been drawn down, the counters cleared and
the wares in the window lightly covered with an old sheet; but the
shop-door remained unlocked till Evelina, who had taken a parcel to
the dyer's, should come back.

In the back room a kettle bubbled on the stove, and Ann Eliza