instantly. It spoke
again, more insistently, "You have heard his voice, felt his kiss, for
the last time. He will never see the face of his child." She silenced it
again, and went about her work.

The day passed as countless other days had passed. She was accustomed to
be much alone. She had work to do, enough and to spare, within the
little home which was to become a real home, please God, in the spring.
The evening fell almost before she expected it. She locked and barred
the doors, and closed the shutters of the windows. She made all secure,
as she had done many a time before.

And then, putting aside her work, she took down the newest of her
well-worn books, lately sent her from New Orleans, and began to read.

Oui, sans doute, tout meurt: ce monde est un grand reve,
Et le peu de bonheur qui nous vient en chemin,
Nous n'avons pas plus tot ce roseau dans la main,
Que le vent nous l'enleve.

"Que le vent nous l'enleve." She repeated the last words to herself. Ah
no! the wind could not take her happiness out of her hand.

A wandering wind had risen at nightfall, and it came softly across the
snow, and tried the doors and windows as with a furtive hand. She could
hear it coming as from an immense distance, passing with a sigh,
returning plaintive, homeless, forlorn, to whisper round the house.

J'ai vu sous le soleil tomber bien d'autres choses
Que les feuilles des bois, et l'ecume des eaux,
Bien d'autres s'en aller que le parfum des roses
Et le chant des oiseaux.

That wind meant more snow. Involuntarily she laid down her book and
listened to it.

How like the sound of the wind was to wandering footsteps, slowly
drawing near, creeping round the house. She could almost have fancied
that a hand touched the shutters, was even now trying to raise the latch
of the door.

A moment of intense silence, in which the wind seemed to hold its breath
and listen without, while she listened within. And then a low, distinct
knock upon the door.

She did not move.

"It is the wind," she said to herself; but she knew it was not.

The knock came again, low, urgent, not to be denied.

She had become very cold. She had supposed fear was an emotion of the
mind. She had not reckoned for this slow paralysis of the body.

She managed to creep to the window and unbar the shutter an inch or two.
By pressing her face against the extreme corner of the pane she could
just discern in the sn