New York was in the throes of a blizzard. The wind howled and
shrieked, heralding the approach of March, the Wind King's month of the
year. Mrs. Davenport stood at a second story window of a room of the
Gilsey House, and looked down idly on the bleak thoroughfare. She was
a young-looking woman for her thirty-five years, and had an extremely
sweet face, denoting kindliness of heart.
The hall door opened, and Elizabeth Davenport entered, carrying in her
arms a little ball of fluffy gray.