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"Well, sit down, Molly, and play something to Sir Peter—you know which are his favourites,—then you must all three run away off to bed instantly. Here is Doris yawning behind her fan, and Honor looks whiter than her frock, if anything. I don't know what father will say, I am sure."

"O, let them stay a bit longer," says indulgent Mr. Merivale, and crossing over to the piano he seats himself beside his three girls, and listens with no little pride to Molly's musicianly playing. The piece ended, Mrs. Merivale keeps to her word, and hardly allowing Sir Peter time to thank Doris and Molly for the musical treat which he declares they have given him, she bids her daughters say "good-night," and with a kiss to each, dismisses them.

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The next morning breaks dismally enough outside. The streets are thickly carpeted with snow, which has fallen plenteously and almost without cessation during the previous night. There is a deadened, muffled sound of occasional traffic only in the usually busy streets, and even this is soon drowned in the scrape, scrape of shovels with which armies of small boys parade the quieter streets and terraces, wherein are the houses of the rich and prosperous men of the large, smoke-begrimed manufacturing town, whilst the fortunate occupants of these large fashionable mansions, who are still curled up comfortably under warm eider-down quilts, are unpleasantly roused to a consciousness of what awaits them by the loud persistent cries of "Sweep yer doorway, ma'am,—doorway ma'am?"