“It makes me think of ‘Snow Bound,’” she said when they had gone back to the fire. “I used to know some of that poem. Little Grace will now recite for you!” She assumed the attitude of a school girl recitationist and repeated, gesturing awkwardly:
“‘What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north-wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire’s ruddy glow.’
I’m talented; you can see that! What if we should be snowed in?”
“What if we should!” he answered. “Tommy always carries a full larder and we wouldn’t starve to death.”
With her hands clasped before her she gazed down at the flames. He drew his arm about her waist and the room was silent save for the cosy murmur of the fire.
“Why not stay here all night? Jerry hasn’t left and he’ll spend the night if I ask him and give us breakfast. I suppose you have to go to the store tomorrow?”
“Yes,—” the assent was to one or all of his questions as he might choose to interpret it.