Margaret noticed with pleasure the various details and changes in Waldsen’s attic, where she went occasionally to dust, and thought that they betokened contentment. The room was no longer bare, festoons of ground pine hung from the rafters and canopied the windows, a half-dozen home-made cages filled the dormer nearest the stove, and sheltered a collection of wild birds rescued from cold and hunger, which chirped from them merrily, while a little screech-owl blinked sleepily from a perch in the corner. Books lay on the table and filled a rough shelf under the eaves. Writing implements and paper also lay about, and traces of bold, irregular characters were on the big sheets of blotting-paper.
It was Andrea’s picture, however, that interested Margaret more than anything. She looked at it day after day, trying to trace a resemblance to Gurth. One day she kissed the lips, and then, suddenly remembering that he might also do this, fled precipitately to her room, and, locking the door, stayed until dark, when she went down to supper with her face flushed, and a nervous air. So nervous was she that her hand trembled until she almost dropped the cup that she was passing to her father. Gurth grasped it, and thus their hands met for the first time.
IV
The last of February a southerly rain inaugurated the spring thaw. Great cakes of ice came down the river, and barricaded the mill. Then a cold snap followed, and the trees hung thick with fantastic icicles. In the morning the Deacon, Gurth, and several neighbours went up the stream to dislodge, with long poles, cakes of ice that were wedged threateningly between trees, and after dinner, when the two men had been talking of the caprices of the storm, the Deacon said: “It’s worth walking up to the Hill Farm, daughter, to see the ice on those white pines, but you must mind your footing. Waldsen’s going up there to shovel off the shed roof, and he’ll be glad to beau you, I know.”
Margaret blushed painfully, but Gurth, totally missing the significance of the word, said, in his precise language, that he was about to ask Miss Margaret, but feared she could not walk so far. So Margaret brought her coat, trimmed with a neck-band and cuffs of fur, and, drawing a dark red tam-o’-shanter over her black hair, set off with Waldsen.
As the Deacon watched them go down the road, dark and fair, slender and tall, both talking with animation, he suddenly gave a long whistle, for an idea, born of the word he had just used, flashed across his matter-of-fact mind, and he said aloud,—“Well, I never! Well, I never! She shan’t find her old dad a spoil sport, anyhow! I’ve my doubts if he’ll ever make out with farming, but I suspect he comes of good folks, and there’s a good living at the mill, and Margaret’s my only one!” Then he smiled contentedly to himself. The Deacon had loved his wife with a sentiment that was regarded as a weakness by his neighbours, and he was prepared to enjoy the courtship of his only daughter and forward it by all the innocent local ruses. Yes, he would even make errands to town, and at the last moment send Waldsen to drive Margaret in his stead.
The couple crossed the bridge and climbed the steep river bank towards the Hill Farm. Waldsen was in high spirits and hummed and whistled as they struggled and slipped along, steadying Margaret every few steps. Happiness and the bracing air had given her a clear colour, and her eyes were sparkling—she was a different being from the pale, silent girl of two months ago. The mail-carrier, who met them at the cross-roads and handed Gurth some letters, thought what a fine couple they made, and immediately started his opinion as a rumour around the community.
Margaret walked about outside the little brown house, while her companion freed the roof from its weight of ice. Her own home was in sight across the river, and at the left was a lovely strip of hill country that rose and fell until it merged with the horizon. She was so absorbed in the view that she did not realize when the shovelling was finished, until Waldsen stood close beside her. “Has your father told you that I buy this place, and that to-morrow the papers will be signed? Yes, I have bought it for my home; I shall plant the ground and work it, as your father says, to win my living. At evening we shall sit here and look up the river and down to where the sun sets, and then over to your house, thanking you for your kindness to a lonely stranger.” The “we” dropped in unawares, but Margaret knew that he meant Andrea, his sister.
“Next Christmas I shall move here, for my best resolves have come on Christmas Day; meanwhile, there is much to be done, and I shall ask your woman’s art how best to make my home attractive.” Then they talked of the garden and of the house, how it would need a summer kitchen, until he, through the subtilty of woman’s sympathy, thought that he could not wait all the long months for Andrea’s coming.
That night Waldsen sat a long time pondering over a letter that had that day come from Andrea. At the first, nothing new suggested itself, except that she perhaps was lonely, but on a second reading a note of pain was evident. Carelessly feeling in the pocket of his overcoat before going to bed, he found that he had received two letters, when he thought he had but one, and, re-lighting his lamp, he read the second, which was blotted and tear-stained. It ran thus:—