“He will be better off with you.”
“I cannot accept such a sacrifice.”
On this point I remained firm. We argued. Haidee entreated, and Joey begged to be allowed to stay. I would not listen to either voice. I arose at last.
“Joey,” I said, speaking slowly, in order to steady my voice, “I have one more bolt to put in the sled I am making for you. Will you come to the workshop with me?”
And in the shop away from every eye, I said good-bye to my lad. And as I kissed him the old doubt stirred. Was I so sure he was Haidee’s child?
Old Lundquist came for Haidee; and we said a conventional good-bye beneath his prying eyes.
Until twelve I waited and watched for Wanza, expecting every instant to hear Captain Grif’s voice at the door, and to see Wanza step over the threshold. Surely she would not go without some last word to me. But she came not.
CHAPTER XXIV
“THE FLOWER WILL BLOOM ANOTHER YEAR”
I SAT by my fire throughout the long night. When dawn came I rose, went to the door and threw it wide and stepped outside into the unstained air of the morning. There was a carpet of snow on the ground, the bushes were like gleaming teepes, and the limbs of the pine trees were weighted with icicles. I repeated to myself Thoreau’s words: “God exhibits himself in a frosted bush to-day, as much as he did in a burning one to Moses.”
The light was purple and cold and solemn, the moon still hung in the gray of the western sky, but in the East there was a glorious band of crimson and the mountain tops looked as if aflame with little bonfires. As I stood there a ruby-crowned kinglet fluttered from twig to twig of the elderberry bush hard by, emitting its bright “zei, zei,” and a chickadee answered with a merry “chickadee-a-dee, dee, dee,” from the yew grove. I waited. I was praying the kinglet would sing. And presently the tiny thing began. It poured forth its strong sweet notes in a succession of trills.