didn't think you'd think of it that way, not havin' seen her."

The child now consented to sit in one of the chairs and put her feet
down by the stove. She wept silently now, with that infrequent, indrawn
sob, more touching than wails. She felt that these strangers were her
friends, but she wanted her mother. She ate well, and soon grew more
resigned. She looked first at one and then at the other of the men as
they talked, trying to understand their strange language. Then she fell
to watching a mouse that stole out from behind the flour-barrels,
snatching a crumb occasionally and darting back, and laughed gleefully
once, and clapped her hands.

"Now, the first thing after the chores, Ans, is that woman over there.
Of course it's out o' the question buryin' her, but we'd better go over
an' git what things there is left o' the girl's, an' fasten up the
shanty to keep the wolves out."

"But then----"

"What?"

"The mice. You can't shut them out."

"That's so, I never thought o' that. We've got to make a box, I guess;
but it's goin' to be an awful job for me, Ans, to git her into it. I
thought I wouldn't have to touch her."

"Le' me go; I've seen her once an' you hain't. I'd just as soon."

"Heaven an' earth! what could I do with the babe? She'd howl like a
coyote, an' drive me plumb wild. No: you're elected to take care o' the
child. I ain't worth a picayune at it. Besides, you had your share
yesterday."

And so, in the brilliant sunshine of that bitterly cold morning,
Gearheart crunched away over the spotless snow, which burned under his
feet--a land mocking, glorious, pitiless. Far off some slender columns
of smoke told of two or three hearth-fires, but mainly the plain was
level and lifeless as the Polar Ocean, appallingly silent, no cry or
stir in the whole expanse, no tree to creak nor bell to ring.

It required strong effort on the part of the young man to open the door
of the cottage, and he stood for some time with his hand on the latch,
looking about. There was perfect silence without and within, no trace
of feet or hands anywhere. All was as peaceful and unbroken as a
sepulchre.

Finally, as if angry with himself, Gearheart shook himself and pushed
open the door, letting the morning sun stream in. It lighted the bare
little room and fell on the frozen face and rigid, half-open eyes of
the dead woman with a strong, white glare. The thin face and worn,
large-jointed hands lying outside the quilt told