THE SONG OF THE LARK
stood at the window and watched a quiet snowstorm spending itself over the city. More than anything else, falling snow always made her think of Moonstone; of the Kohlers' garden, of Thor's sled, of dressing by lamplight and starting off to school before the paths were broken.
When Fred came, he looked tired, and he took her hand almost without seeing her.
"I 'm so sorry, Fred. Have you had any more word?"
"She was still unconscious at four this afternoon. It does n't look very encouraging." He approached the fire and warmed his hands. He seemed to have contracted, and he had not at all his habitual ease of manner. "Poor mother!" he exclaimed; "nothing like this should have happened to her. She has so much pride of person. She 's not at all an old woman, you know. She 's never got beyond vigorous and rather dashing middle age." He turned abruptly to Thea and for the first time really looked at her. "How badly things come out! She 'd have liked you for a daughter-in-law. Oh, you 'd have fought like the devil, but you 'd have respected each other." He sank into a chair and thrust his feet out to the fire. "Still," he went on thoughtfully, seeming to address the ceiling, "it might have been bad for you. Our big German houses, our good German cooking—you might have got lost in the upholstery. That substantial comfort might take the temper out of you, dull your edge. Yes," he sighed, "I guess you were meant for the jolt of the breakers."
"I guess I 'll get plenty of jolt," Thea murmured, turning to her trunk.
"I 'm rather glad I 'm not staying over until to-morrow," Fred reflected. "I think it 's easier for me to glide out like this. I feel now as if everything were rather casual, anyhow. A thing like that dulls one's feelings."
Thea, standing by her trunk, made no reply. Presently he shook himself and rose. "Want me to put those trays in for you?"
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