It was because she did not like such men that she learned to love--rather the better word might be, to adore--little John Gilby.

From higher levels of taste he would have been seen to be, in external notions, a common little man, but from Zilda's standpoint, even in matters of outward taste he was an ideal; and Zilda, placed as she was, quickly perceived, what those who looked down upon him might not have discovered, that the heart of him was very good.

'Mon Dieu, but he is good!' she would say to herself, which was simply the fact.
All winter long Gilby came regularly.

Zilda was happy in thinking of him when he was gone, happy in expecting him when he was coming, happy in making fun of him so that no one ever suspected her affection.

All that long winter, when the snow was deep in the fields, and the engines carried snow-ploughs, and the loungers about the station wore buffalo coats, Zilda was very happy.