'
'Oh--!' she cried, with rough scorn--'it's not _me_ that bothers. But
it's the nasty meanness of it--me writing him such loving letters'--she
put her hand before her face and laughed malevolently--'and sending him
parcels all the time. You bet he fed that gurrl on my parcels--I know he
did. It's just like him. I'll bet they laughed together over my letters.
I bet anything they did--'
'Nay,' said I. 'He'd burn your letters for fear they'd give him away.'
There was a black look on her yellow face. Suddenly a voice was heard
calling. She poked her head out of the shed, and answered coolly:
'All right!' Then turning to me: 'That's his mother looking after me.'
She laughed into my face, witch-like, and we turned down the road.
When I awoke, the morning after this episode, I found the house darkened
with deep, soft snow, which had blown against the large west windows,
covering them with a screen. I went outside, and saw the valley all white
and ghastly below me, the trees beneath black and thin looking like wire,
the rock-faces dark between the glistening shroud, and the sky above
sombre, heavy, yellowish-dark, much too heavy for this world below of
hollow bluey whiteness figured with black. I felt I was in a valley of
the dead. And I sensed I was a prisoner, for the snow was everywhere
deep, and drifted in places. So all the morning I remained indoors,
looking up the drive at the shrubs so heavily plumed with snow, at the
gateposts raised high with a foot or more of extra whiteness.
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