“I be the ranger's wife,” said Eugenia. “I kem over hyar ter tell ye he never tuk yer black mare nowise but honest, bein' the ranger.” She found it difficult to say more. Under that speculative, unseeing look she too faltered. “They tell me ez Luke Todd air powerful outed 'bout'n it. An' I 'lowed ef he knowed from me ez 'twar tuk fair, he'd b'lieve me.” She hesitated. Her courage was flagging; her hope had fled. The eyes of the man's wife burned upon her face. “We-uns useter be toler'ble well 'quainted 'fore he ever seen ye, an' I 'lowed he'd b'lieve my word,” Eugenia continued. Another silence. The sun was rising; long liquescent lines of light of purest amber-color were streaming through the snowy woods; the shadows of the fence rails alternated with bars of dazzling glister; elusive prismatic gleams of rose and lilac and blue shimmered on every slope--thus the winter flowered. Tiny snow-birds were hopping about; a great dog came down from the little snow-thatched cabin, and was stretching himself elastically and yawning most portentously. “An' I 'lowed I'd see ye an' git you-uns ter tell him that word from me, an' then he'd b'lieve it,” said Eugenia. The younger woman nodded mechanically, still gazing at her. And was this her mission! Somehow it had lost its urgency. Where was its potency, her enthusiasm? Eugenia realized that her feet were wet, her skirts draggled; that she was chilled to the bone and trembling violently. She looked about her doubtfully. Then her eyes came back to the face of the woman before her. “Ye'll tell him, I s'pose?” Once more Luke Todd's wife nodded mechanically, still staring. There was nothing further to be said. A vacant interval ensued. Then, “I 'lowed I'd tell ye,” Eugenia reiterated, vaguely, and turned away, vanishing with the vanishing mists. Luke Todd's wife stood gazing at the fence through which the apparition had peered. She could see yet her own face there, grown old and worn. The dog wagged his tail and pressed against her, looking up and claiming her notice. Once more he stretched himself elastically and yawned widely, with shrill variations of tone. The calf was frisking about in awkward bovine elation, and now and then the cow affectionately licked its coat with the air of making its toilet. An assertive chanticleer was proclaiming the dawn within the henhouse, whence came too an impatient clamor, for the door, which served to exclude any marauding fox, was still closed upon the imprisoned poultry. Still she looked steadily at the fence where the ranger's wife had stood. “That thar woman favors me,” she said, presently. And suddenly she burst into tears. Perhaps it was well that Eugenia could not see Luke Todd's expression as his wife recounted the scene. She gave it truly, but without, alas! the glamour of sympathy. “She 'lowed ez ye'd b'lieve her, bein' ez ye use-ter be 'quainted.”