In announcing to my mother the date of our departure, I said, "We won't be gone long. We'll be back early in the spring." "See that you do," she replied, but her eyes were deep and dark with instant sadness. She had hoped with childish trust that we would stay all winter with her. It was beautiful in Neshonoc at this time. Deep, dazzling snows blanketed the hills, and covered the fields, and frequently at sunset or later, after the old people were asleep, Zulime and I went for a swift walk far out into the silent country, rejoicing in the crisp clear air, and in the sparkle of moonbeams on the crusted drifts. At such times the satin sheen of sled-tracks in the road, the squeal of dry flakes under my heel (united with the sound of distant sleigh bells) brought back to me sadly-sweet memories of boyish games, spelling school, and the voices of girls whose laughter had long since died away into silence. The blurred outlines of the hills, the barking of sentinel dogs at farm-yard gates, and the light from snow-laden cottage windows filled my heart with a dull illogical ache, an emotion which was at once a pleasure and a pain. O, witchery of the winter night, (With broad moon shouldering to the west), Before my feet the rustling deeps Of untracked snows, in shimmering heaps, Lie cold and desolate and white. I hear glad girlish voices ring Clear as some softly-stricken string-- (The moon is sailing toward the west), The sleigh-bells clash in homeward flight, With frost each horse's breast is white-- (The moon is falling toward the west)-- "Good night, Lettie!" "Good night, Ben!" (The moon is sinking at the west)-- "Good night, my sweetheart,"--Once again The parting kiss, while comrades wait Impatient at the roadside gate, And the red moon sinks _beyond_ the west! Such moments as these were meeting places of the old and the new, the boy and the man. The wistful, haunting dreams of the past, contended with the warm and glowing fulfillment of the present. For the past a song, for the present the woman at my side! Whether Zulime had similar memories of her girlhood or not I do not know. She was not given to emotional expression, but she several times declared herself entirely content with our orderly easeful life and professed herself willing to remain in the homestead until spring. "I like it here," she repeated, but I was certain that she liked the city and her own kind, better, and that a longer stay would prove a deprivation and a danger. After all, she was an alien in the Valley,--a gracious and kindly alien, but an alien nevertheless. Her natural habitat was among the studios of Chicago or New York, and my sense of justice would not permit me to take advantage of her loyalty and her womanly self-sacrifice. "Pack your trunk," I said to her one December day, with an air of high authority. "We are going East in continuation of our wedding trip."