Her husband rose impatiently, and walked to the window. He was not given to fancies; all his life was ruled and squared up to a creed. Yet I doubt if he liked the sound of that wind much better than the woman. He thrummed upon the window-sill, then turned sharply away.
"There's a storm up, a cold one too."
"It stormed when—"
But Mrs. Ryck did not finish her sentence. Her husband, coming back to his seat, tripped over a stool,—a little thing it was, fit only for a child; a bit of dingy carpet covered it: once it had been bright.
"Martha, what do you keep this about for? It's always in the way!" setting it up angrily against the wall.
"I won't, if you'd rather not, Amos."
The farmer took up an almanac, and counted out the time when the minister's salary and the butcher's bill were due; it gave occasion for making no reply.
"Amos!" she said at last. He put down his book.
"Amos, do you remember what day it is?"
"I'm not likely to forget." His face darkened.