followed me out on the step.

"You're a saint, Minnie," she said, leaning over and squeezing my arm,
"and because you're going back and forth in the cold so much, I want you
to have this--to keep."

She stooped and picked up from the snow beside the steps something soft
and furry and threw it around my neck, and the next instant I knew
she was giving me her chinchilla set, muff and all. I was so pleased I
cried, and all the way over to the shelter-house I sniveled and danced
with joy at the same time. There's nothing like chinchilla to tone down
red hair.

Well, I took the note out to the shelter-house, and rapped. Mr. Dick let
me in, and it struck me he wasn't as cheerful as usual. He reached out
and took the muff.

"Oh," he said, "I thought that was the supper."

"It's coming," I said, looking past him for Mrs. Dicky. Usually when
I went there she was drawing Mr. Dick's profile on a bit of paper or
teaching him how to manicure his nails, but that night she was lying on
the cot and she didn't look up.

"Sleeping?" I asked in a whisper.

"Grumping!" Mr. Dick answered. He went over and stood looking down at
her with his hands in his pockets and his hair ruffled as if he'd been
running his fingers through it. She never moved a shoulder.