Now was the beginning of the storm season in New England, and on stormy days the two girls would sit before the fire in Sappho’s room and talk of the many things dear to women, while they embroidered or stitched. So they sat one cold, snowy day. The storm had started the afternoon before and had raged with unceasing fury all night—snow and rain which the increasing cold quickly turned into cutting sleet. Morning had brought relief from the high winds, and the temperature had moderated somewhat; but the snow still fell steadily, drifting into huge piles, which made the streets impassable. It was the first great storm Sappho had seen. It was impossible for her to leave home, so she begged Dora to pass the day with her and play “company,” like the children. Dora was nothing loathe; and as soon as her morning duties were finished, she told her mother that she was going visiting and would not be at home until tea time. By eleven o’clock they had locked the door of Sappho’s room to keep out all intruders, had mended the fire until the little stove gave out a delicious warmth, and had drawn the window curtains close to keep out stray currents of air. Sappho’s couch was drawn close beside the stove, while Dora’s small person was most cosily bestowed in her favorite rocking-chair.
It was a very convenient stove that Sappho had in her room. The ornamental top could be turned back on its movable hinge, and there was a flat stove cover ready to hold any vessel and heat its contents to just the right temperature. Sappho was prouder of that stove than a daughter of Fortune would have been of the most expensive silver chafing-dish. It was very near lunch time, so the top was turned back, and the little copper teakettle was beginning to sing its welcome song. Dora had placed a small, round table between the couch and the rocker. A service for two was set out in dainty china dishes, cream and sugar looking doubly tempting as it gleamed and glistened in the delicate ware. One plate was piled with thinly cut slices of bread and butter, another held slices of pink ham.
Sappho lay back among her cushions, lazily stretching her little slippered feet toward the warm stove, where the fire burned so cheerily and glowed so invitingly as it shone through the isinglass door. She folded her arms above her head and turned an admiring gaze on the brown face of her friend, who, swayed gently back and forth in her rocking-chair, her feet on a hassock, and a scarlet afghan wrapped about her knees. Dora was telling Sappho all about her engagement to John Langley and their plans for the future.
“I think you will be happy, Dora, if you love him. All things are possible if love is the foundation stone,” said Sappho, after a slight pause, as she nestled among her pillows. Dora was sitting bolt upright with the usual businesslike look upon her face.
“I like him well enough to marry him, but I don’t believe there’s enough sentiment in me to make love a great passion, such as we read of in books. Do you believe marriage is the beautiful state it is painted by writers?”
“Why, yes,” laughed Sappho; “I wouldn’t believe anything else for your sake, my little brownie.”
“No joking, Sappho; this is dead earnest. Don’t you ever expect to marry, and don’t you speculate about the pros and cons and the maybes and perhapses of the situation?” asked Dora, as she filled the cups with steaming cocoa and passed one to her friend.
“Dora, you little gourmand, what have you got in the refrigerator?” A box ingeniously nailed to the window seat outside, and filled with shelves, and having a substantial door, was the icebox, or refrigerator, where Sappho kept materials handy for a quick lunch. Dora closed the window and returned quickly to her seat, placing a glass dish on the table as she did so.
“It’s only part of a cream pie that ma had left last night. I thought it would help out nicely with our lunch.”
“What, again!” said Sappho significantly. “That’s the fourth time this week, and here it is but Friday. You’ll be as fat as a seal, and then John P. won’t want you at any price. Take warning, and depart from the error of your ways before it is too late.”
Dora laughed guiltily and said, as she drew a box from her apron pocket: “Well, here are John’s chocolate bonbons that he brought last night. I suppose you won’t want me to touch them, for fear of getting fat.”
Sappho shook her head in mock despair. “And your teeth, your beautiful white teeth, where will they be shortly if you persist in eating a pound of bonbons every day? Think of your fate, Dora, and pause in your reckless career—forty inches about the waist and only scraggy snags to show me when you grin!”
“Thank heaven I’ll never come to that while there’s a dentist in the city of Boston! I’ll eat all the bonbons I want in
