“And what is moccasins? Ah, yes, the Indian shoe. I like them well, so soft they must be, and so pretty with the beads. I have seen once such shoes on one little Indian child. Her mother made them.”
Then Harry made her try the crutches to be sure they were quite right, and, seeing that they were a little too long, he measured them with care, and carried them back to the shed, and there he shortened them and polished them with sand and a piece of flint, until he succeeded in making a very workmanlike job of them.
At noon he brought them back, and stood in the doorway a moment beside her, looking out through the whiteness upon the transformed world. In spite of what that snow might mean to Larry Kildene, and through him to them, of calamity, maybe death, a certain elation possessed Harry. His body was braced to unusual energy by the keen, pure air, and his spirit enthralled and lifted to unconscious adoration by the vast mystery of a beauty, subtle and ethereal in its hushed eloquence. From the zenith through whiteness to whiteness the flakes sifted from the sky like a filmy bride’s veil thrown over the blue of the farthest and highest peaks, and swaying soft folds of lucent whiteness upon the earth––the trees––and upon the cabin, and as they stood there, closing them in together––the very center of mystery, their own souls. Again the passion swept through him, to gather her in his arms, and he held himself sternly and stiffly against it, and would have said something simple and common to break the spell, but he only faltered and looked down on his hands spread out before her, and what he said was: “Do you see blood on them?”
“Ah, no. Did you hurt your hand to cause blood on 278 them, and to make those crutch for me?” she cried in consternation.
“No, no. It’s nothing. I have not hurt my hand. See, there’s no blood on the crutches.” He glanced at them as she leaned her weight on them there at his side, with a feeling of relief. It seemed as if they must show a stain, yet why should it be blood? “Come in. It’s too cold for you to stand in the door with no shawl. I mean to put enough wood in here to last you the rest of the day––and go––”
“Mr. ’Arry! Not to leave us? No, it is no need you go––for why?”
Her terror touched him. “No, I would not go again and leave you and your mother alone––not to save my soul. As you say, there is no need––as long as it is so still and the clouds are thin the snow will do little harm. It would be the driving, fine snow and the drifts that would delay him.”
“Yes, snow as we have it in the terrible Russia. I know such snow well,” said Madam Manovska.
They went in and closed the door, and sat down to eat. The meal was lighted only by the dancing flames from the hearth, and their faces glowed in the fitful light. Always the meals were conducted with a certain stately ceremony which made the lack of dishes, other than the shaped slabs of wood sawn from the ends of logs––odd make-shifts invented by Harry, seem merely an accident of the moment, while the bits of lace-edged linen that Amalia provided from their little store seemed quite in harmony with the air of grace and gentleness that surrounded the two women. It was as if they were using a service of silver and Sevres, and to have missed the graciousness of their ministrations, now 279 that he had lived for a little while with them, would have been sorrow indeed.