Dorothea cantered on to the top of the hill, and then walked Mercury to and fro, while she watched the taller rise beyond.

The snow had ceased falling; but a crisp north wind skimmed the drifts and powdered her dark habit.
Twice she pulled out her watch; but the coach was up to time in spite of the heavy roads; and as it topped the rise she reined Mercury to the right-about and cantered back to await it.

Already the street had begun to fill as usual; and, as usual, there was General Rochambeau picking his way along the pavement to present himself for the Admiral's letter--the letter which never arrived.
Would _her_ letter never arrive?
He halted on the kerb by her stirrup.

She asked after the Admiral's health.
"Ah, Mademoiselle, if ever he leaves his bed again, it will be a miracle." She was not listening.

Age, age again!--it makes all the difference.
Here came the coach--did it hold a letter for Raoul?
Raoul was young.
The coach rolled by with less noise than usual, on the carpet of snow churned brown with traffic.