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His face lengthened, and the smile went out of his eyes. He accepted her tone as final, too loyal to doubt her word. “Don’t be mad; I was only in hopes.” He rose after a silence and went out with downcast head.

She sat rigidly, feeling as if the blood were freezing in her hands and feet. The crisis was upon her. The time of her judgment was coming–and she was alone! She burned with anger against Rivers. Why had he waited and waited? “He can put things off–he is a man, but I am the woman–I must suffer it all.” The pain, the shame, the deadly danger–all were hers.

Burke returned, noisily, stamping his feet like a boy.

“It’s snowin’ like all git out,” he said, “and I’ve got to rig up some kind of a sled. I reckon winter has come in earnest now, and our coal-pile is low.”

He went to sleep with the readiness of a child, and as she lay listening to his quiet breath she remembered how easy it had once been for her to sleep. She had the same agony of pity for him that she would have felt for a child she had wronged malevolently.

The next day Mrs. Bussy came over. At her rap Blanche called, “Come in,” but remained seated by the fire.

The old woman entered, knocking the snow off her feet like a man.

“How de do, neighbor?”

Blanche drew her shawl a little closer around her. “Not very well; sit down, won’t you?”

“Can’t stop. You don’t seem very peart. I want to know what seems to be the trouble.” Her keen eyes had never seemed so penetrating before. Blanche flushed and moved uneasily. She was afraid of the old creature, who seemed half-man, half-woman.

“Oh, I don’t know. Rheumatism, I guess.”

“That so? Well, this weather is ‘nough to give anybody rheumatiz. I tell Ed–that’s my boy–I tell Ed we made holy fools of ourselves comin’ out here. I never see such a damn country f’r wind.” She rambled on about the weather for some time, and at last rose. “Well, I wanted to borrow your wash-boiler; mine leaks like an infernal old sieve, and I dasen’t go to town to get it mended for fear of a blow. What’s trouble?”

Blanche suddenly put her hand to her side and grew white and rigid. Then the blood flamed into her cheeks, and the perspiration stood out on her forehead. She clinched her lips between her teeth and lay back in her chair.

“Ye look kind o’ faint. Can’t I do something for ye? Got any pain-killer? That’s good, well rubbed in,” volunteered the old woman.

“No, no, I–I’m all right now, it was just a sharp twinge, that’s all–you’ll find the boiler in the shed; I don’t need it.” Her tone was one of dismissal.

The old woman rose. “All right, I’ll find it. Set still.” As she went out she grinned–a mocking, sly, aggravating grin. “It’s all right–nothin’ to be ashamed of. I’ve had ten. I called my first one pleurisy. It didn’t fool any one, though.” She cackled and creaked with laughter as she shut the door.

Blanche sat motionless, staring straight before her, while the fire died out and the room grew cold.

Her terror and shame gave way at last, and she allowed herself to dream of the mystical joy of maternity. She permitted herself to fancy the life of a mother in a sheltered and prosperous home. She felt in imagination the touch of little lips, the thrust of little hands, the cling of little arms. “My baby should come into a lovely, sun-lit room. It should have a warm, pretty cradle. It should–“

The door opened and her husband entered.

“Why, Blanche–what’s the matter? You’ve let the fire go out. It’s cold as blixen in here. You’ll take cold, first you know.”

VI

DECEMBER

Winter came late, but with a fury which appalled the strong hearts of the settlers. Most of them were from the wooded lands of the East, and the sweep of the wind across this level sod had a terror which made them quake and cower. The month of December was incredibly severe.