its furnishings, the soft leather-bound books on the
table, the dreamy face of the occupant, who sat with
folded hands looking out of the window, were all in
strange contrast to the dreariness of the scene below,
where the one long street of the little Manitoba town,
piled high with snow, stretched away into the level,
white, never-ending prairie. A farmer tried to force his
tired horses through the drifts; a little boy with a
milk-pail plodded bravely from door to door, sometimes
laying down his burden to blow his breath on his stinging
fingers.

The only sound that disturbed the quiet of the afternoon
in Mrs. Francis's sitting room was the regular rub-rub
of the wash-board in the kitchen below.

"Mrs. Watson is slow with the washing to-day," Mrs.
Francis murmured with a look of concern on her usually
placid face. "Possibly she is not well. I will call her
and see."

"Mrs. Watson, will you come upstairs, please?" she called
from the stairway.

Mrs. Watson, slow and shambling, came up the stairs, and
stood in the doorway wiping her face on her apron.

"Is it me ye want ma'am?" she asked when she had recovered
her breath.