Molly was coughing sadly. They had moved her bed across to Willy's sitting-room, and a fire crackled on the stone hearth; but it was to be one of the nights when she would not sleep, or but fitfully, and when Celeste and Alexina would not sleep either. At nine o'clock they persuaded her to bed. "But talk, Malise, you and mammy talk. I don't have chance to think when people keep on talking; and, mammy, rub my hands; it helps, to have some one rub them." At ten she wanted a drink of water. Alexina went to the window where she had set a tumbler outside. The night was still and clear, the stars glittering. The moon would rise soon now. How large the grove showed itself from this south window, stretching away to the southwest around the curving shores of Nancy. As Alexina opened the window she shivered, despite the heavy wool of her white wrapper. As she took in the glass--was it? Yes, over the surface of the water radiated a ferny, splintery film, which was ice. Molly, feverish and restless, drank it thirstily, and said it was good, but it roused her so that she began to talk again. "He said I couldn't prevent his praying for me," she was harping on the minister. "For my soul," she laughed uneasily. "I told him to let my soul alone. It's perfectly funny, Malise, that I've got to be prayed over when I don't want to be." The night wore on. Celeste was nodding, even while her brown hands went on rubbing up and down the slim white wrist and arm. The wood on the andirons broke and fell apart. The room grew shadowy. "Build it up, Malise," begged Molly; "I like it light." There was no more wood up-stairs. It was past twelve o'clock and the house was still. Alexina opened the door into the hall. A lamp in case of need, because of Molly, was burning on a stand. Alexina had remembered that there was wood piled on the parlour hearth. Her slippers were noiseless. Down-stairs she paused, then tip-toed to the front door. The big thermometer and barometer in one hung against a side of the recess and could be seen through the glass side-lights. It was bright moonlight now, the shadows of the rose vine clear cut on the porch floor. She looked at the thermometer. She looked again. It had come, then, what never had come to Aden before. From the talk of the day she had gleaned enough to know that the fruit hanging on William Leroy's trees was but so much sodden, worthless pulp. She turned back towards the parlour where the firelight was flickering out the doorway, then stopped. He was in his father's chair before the hearth. His elbow was on his knee and the hand on which his chin was propped was clenched. The flame flared up. His face was haggard and harsh. She fled back up-stairs. Molly had fallen asleep, Celeste was nodding.