seemed much more interested in the samples of choice fruit arranged on
every side. From one to another of these she flitted with the delicate
sensuousness of a butterfly, smelling them and touching them lightly
with the hand she had ungloved (which was as white as the snow
without), as if they had for her a peculiar fascination.

"You seem very fond of fruit," said the merchant, his _amour propre_
pleased by her evident interest in his stock.

"I have ever had a passion for fine fruits and flowers," was the
reply, spoken with that perfect frankness characteristic of American
girls. "No, you need not send it; I prefer to take it with me."

And with a slight smile, she passed out, leaving the fruiterer
chuckling over the thought that he had probably had the pleasantest
bit of trade on Broadway that dull day.

Plunging through the drifts, our nymph of the snow resolutely crossed
the street and passed down to a flower store, but, instead of buying a
bouquet, ordered several pots of budding and blooming plants to be
sent to her address. She then made her way to Fifth Avenue and soon
mounted a broad flight of steps to one of its most stately houses. The
door yielded to her key, her thick walking boots clattered for a
moment on the marble floor, but could not disguise the lightness of
her step as she tripped up the winding stair and pushed open a
rosewood door leading into the upper hall.

"Mother, mother," she exclaimed, "here is a treat for you that will
banish nerves, headache, and horrors generally. See what I have found
for you out in the wintry snows. Now am I not a good fairy for once?"