“Er—We shall be pleased to hear of your life in England. We all send many kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for your future days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Élise.” There was silence for a moment, during which Mrs. Goyte remained with her head dropped, sinister and abstracted. Suddenly she lifted her face, and her eyes flashed. “Oh, but I call it beastly, I call it mean, to take a girl in like that.” “Nay,” I said. “Probably he hasn’t taken her in at all. Do you think those French girls are such poor innocent things? I guess she’s a great deal more downy than he.” “Oh, he’s one of the biggest fools that ever walked,” she cried. “There you are!” said I. “But it’s his child right enough,” she said. “I don’t think so,” said I. “I’m sure of it.” “Oh, well,” I said, “if you prefer to think that way.” “What other reason has she for writing like that—” I went out into the road and looked at the cattle. “Who is this driving the cows?” I said. She too came out. “It’s the boy from the next farm,” she said. “Oh, well,” said I, “those Belgian girls! You never know where their letters will end. And, after all, it’s his affair—you needn’t bother.” “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. Or I looked down into the white-and-black valley that was utterly motionless and beyond life, a hollow sarcophagus.