"Dead and buried; mother, mother!"
The words came forth in a sharp cry, breaking the pale lips apart and leaving them so.
"I left it alive, Katharine—sleeping by your side. Can you remember when I went out that day after a man to haul some wood from Castle Rock?"
Katharine held both hands to her temples, rocking to and fro as if the effort to think cost great pain.
"Yes, mother, I remember about the wood. You put the shawl, that David sent me, over my shoulders. The baby was asleep then, with one hand to its mouth. I took the hand away just to see it nestle; its pretty lips were moving all the time."
"What then?"
"It was a noise, mother—a trumpet sounding through the house—dead leaves, white leaves flying all about me; then, mother, then immense heaps of snow rolling, heaving, and spreading everywhere. I—I cannot remember how I got in or out of this cold whiteness. It seemed to bury me in a long sleep."
"Poor child—poor little Katharine."
"Oh, I remember you called me that when I was a very small child."
"Katharine, try; can you remember nothing more?"