“O Snow! O down from what vast swan-breast torn? from what vast swan-breast torn, to flutter, to flutter through the air and—and—What swan, then, was it? is it? that died, that dies in silence, in grief more like a song than—than silence: a song that has—that knows—that finds no words, no tune, no melody, no tune; but only feeling, ecstatic anguish, despair that faints, that droops, that swoons, and lies as meek, as white, as white, as still as marble. O Snow, thou quell’st—O Snow that quells the world, the countless sorrows of the world, the plaints, the hungers, shames, to one calm mood, one White. O Peace! O flawless Peace! This snow must be the drifting plumage from the torn wide wings, the aching breast of heaven’s own dove, the Holy Ghost.” He was as lost in his shredded rhythms as in the snow; as muffled in himself as in the heavy robe and his greatcoat, and his thick cap. He had not yet thought of a way to exile the Albesons. He had surrendered himself as utterly to the weather as the hills themselves. The road was gone, the walls rubbed out, the trees were but white mushrooms. Everything was smoothed and rounded and numbed. Immy and her mother were snowed under and never spoke. Even the driver made no sound except an occasional chirrup or a lazy, “Git ap there!” Then they were suddenly at Tuliptree. The snow had blurred the landmarks, and the driver had to wade thigh-deep to reach the gate, and excavate a space to swing it open. The Albesons had neither seen nor heard them come, and the pounding on the door and the stamping of feet gave them their first warning. They were so glad of the end of their solitude, and put to such a scurry to open bedrooms and provide fires and supper, that they had little time for questions beyond, “Haow air ye all, anyway?” “Haow’ve ye ben?” “Haow’s all the rest of the folks?” “Did ye ever see sich snow?” Mrs. Albeson embraced Immy with a reminiscent pity, and praised her for putting on flesh and not looking like the picked chicken most the girls looked like nowadays. This gave RoBards his first idea and he spoke briskly: “She’s not so well as she looks. Too much gayety in the city. Doctor says she’s got to have complete rest and quiet. Mrs. RoBards and I are pretty well worn out, too; so we decided just to cut and run. Besides, I didn’t like to leave the farm alone all winter.” “Alone all winter?” Albeson echoed. “Ain’t we here?” “That’s what I came up to see you about. I have a client who lent a big sum of money on a Georgia plantation, slaves and crops and all. He’s afraid he’s been swindled—afraid the land’s no good—wants an honest opinion from somebody that knows soil when he sees it. So I’m sending you. And I’m sending your wife along to keep you out of mischief.” “But Georgia! Gosh, that’s a million miles, ain’t it?” “It’s nothing. You get the railroad part of the way. And it’s like summer down there.”