reality lingered a little over some
exercises in the school-house before she started on her way home. It
was snowing quite steadily, and the wind still blew. The snow made
the wind seem as evident as the wings of a bird. Maria hurried along.
When she reached the bridge across the Ramsey River she saw a girl
standing as if waiting for her. The girl was all powdered with snow
and she had on a thick veil, but Maria immediately knew that she was
Lily Merrill. Lily came up to her as she reached her with almost an
abject motion. She had her veiled face lowered before the storm, and
she carried herself as if her spirit also was lowered before some
wind of fate. She pressed timidly close to Maria when she reached her.

"I've been waiting for you, Maria," she said.

"Have you?" returned Maria, coldly.

"Yes, I wanted to see you, and I didn't know as I could, unless I met
you. I didn't know whether you would have a fire in your room
to-night, and I thought your aunt would be in the sitting-room, and I
thought you wouldn't be apt to come over to my house, it storms so."

"No, I shouldn't," Maria said, shortly.

Then Lily burst out in a piteous low wail, a human wail piercing the
wail of the storm. The two girls were quite alone on the bridge.

"Oh, Maria," said Lily, "I did want you to know how dreadfully
ashamed I was of what I did last night."

"I should think you would be," Maria said, pitilessly. She walked on
ahead, with her mouth in a straight line, and did not look at the
other girl.

Lily came closer to her and passed one of her arms through Maria's
and pressed against her softly. "I wanted to tell you, too," she
said, "that I made an excuse about--that handkerchief the other
night. I thought it was in my coat-pocket all the time. I did it just
so he would go home with me last."

Maria looked at her. "I never saw such a girl as you are, Lily
Merrill," she said, contemptuously, but in spite of herself there was
a soft accent in her voice. It was not in Maria's nature to be hard
upon a repentant sinner.

Lily leaned her face against Maria's snow-powdered shoulder. "I was
dreadfully ashamed of it," said she, "and I thought I must tell you,
Maria. You don't think so very badly of me, do you? I know I was
awful." The longing for affection and approbation in Lily's voice
gave it almost a singing quality. She was so fond of love and
approval that the withdrawal of it smote her like a frost of the
spirit.

"I think