Matters were progressing well in the town. The Indians had buried the hatchet, having had enough of fighting, and were at peace with the settlers. The crops, too, though suffering somewhat from the depredations of the red men, were plenty, so fertile was the land. The store-houses and barns were better filled than any year since the Colony had been in existence, and winter, which was already at hand, would find the village in good shape.
The repairs to the block house had been finished, the few houses in the town that had been burned by the Indians were being rebuilt. A band of settlers had come from Pennsylvania, so that we now numbered some two hundred men, and nearly half as many women.
It was late in November, the leaves were all off the trees, there had been little flurries of snow, the winds were mournful, and on every side one could see that winter was fairly come. I had been able to leave my bed. One afternoon, when the sun was setting behind a bank of gray clouds that promised a storm Lucille and I stood at the west window looking out.
“It is going to snow,” said she, mournfully.
“I love the white flakes,” I said cheerfully.
“They are so cold, so cheerless, so dead, so cruel to the flowers and birds. Why do you love them?”
“Because they dance down so merrily. Because they cover up the dull brown earth from us until it blossoms out again. Because,” and I took her hand, “it was through a snow storm that I went to find my love.”
“Poor reason, Edward.”
“The best of reasons, sweetheart.”
Days came and went, bringing me back health and strength. Slowly I walked about the house until I came to venturing out into the snow when the weather was fine. I became acquainted with the towns-folk, a thing I had not had time to do before. To while away the hours, some of the men who had fought with me in the block would come in. Then, sitting beside the blazing logs on the hearth, we would fight the battle all over again.