"Swear it."
She hesitated.
"Swear it, to please me," he said.
"I swear that I will let no one into the house, on any pretext whatever, until you come back," she said, smiling at him.
He sighed and relapsed into his chair, and gave way to the great fatigue that possessed him.
The next morning he started soon after daybreak, but not until he had brought her in sufficient fuel to last several days. There had been more snow in the night, fine snow like salt, but not enough to make travelling difficult. She watched him ride away, and silenced the voice within her which always said as she saw him go, "You will never see him again; you have heard his voice for the last time." Perhaps, after all, the difference between the brave and the cowardly lies in how they deal with that voice. Both hear it. She silenced it instantly. It spoke again, more insistently, "You have heard his voice, felt his kiss, for the last time. He will never see the face of his child." She silenced it again, and went about her work.
The day passed as countless other days had passed. She was accustomed to be much alone. She had work to do, enough and to spare, within the little home which was to become a real home, please God, in the spring. The evening fell almost before she expected it. She locked and barred the doors, and closed the shutters of the windows. She made all secure, as she had done many a time before.
And then, putting aside her work, she took down the newest of her well-worn books, lately sent her from New Orleans, and began to read.
Oui, sans doute, tout meurt: ce monde est un grand rêve,
Et le peu de bonheur qui nous vient en chemin,
Nous n'avons pas plus tôt ce roseau dans la main,
Que le vent nous l'enlève.
"Que le vent nous l'enlève." She repeated the last words to herself. Ah no! the wind could not take her happiness out of her hand.