"Certainly, but the mud."
"I have rubbers," and she held out one foot. They plunged into a country road and walked steadily on. Both were accomplished pedestrians, and having found out that for some unknown reason her husband had rather walk than drive, Derrice usually expressed a preference for the former exercise.
For some distance she walked a little ahead of him, and, in order to escape the slush of the road, traversed the length of an icy ridge, her hands in her jacket pockets, her body carefully balanced. When she paused to allow a muddy wagon to pass, he caught up to her.
"Derrice," he said, "let us go back. You are as pale as a ghost."
"No, no,—it is only that I cannot help thinking about yesterday."
"My darling, suppose I had been drowned."
"Drowned—" and she stopped and turned to him in blank horror. Then she lifted her eyes to the chill, blue sky above them. A new world was opening on her. She might have been left alone on its threshold, left alone to struggle with the problems of life and death, and human mysteries with which she had been confronted in her swift transition from girlhood to womanhood.
She could not answer him, and with a dumb and mournful gesture continued her walk.
"Death is to a Christian only the closing of the eyes," he went on, softly, "a waking up in an atmosphere infinitely more happy than any earthly one."
She brushed away the tears from her eyes. She did not understand him.