green, it is true, in the little grove across the way; but it was a
solemn and gloomy green, to her child's mind,--she had not yet learned
to love the steadfast pines. Sometimes she would open the door with a
wild thought of flying out, of flying far away, as the birds did, and
rejoining them in southern countries where the sun was warm, and not a
fire that froze while it lighted one. So cold! so cold! But when she
stood thus, the little wild heart beating fiercely in her, the icy
blast would come and chill her into quiet again, and turn the blood
thick, so that it ran slower in her veins; and she would think of the
leagues and leagues of pitiless snow and ice that lay between her and
the birds, and would close the door again, and go back to her work with
that little weary moan.

Her husband was very kind in these days; oh, very kind and gentle. He
kept the dark moods to himself, if they came upon him, and tried even
to be gay, though he did not know how to set about it. If he had ever
known or looked at a child, this poor man, he would have done better;
but it was not a thing that he had ever thought of, and he did not yet
know that Marie was a child. Sometimes when she saw him looking at her
with the grave, loving, uncomprehending look that so often followed her
as she moved about, she would come to him and lay her head against his
shoulder, and remain quiet so for many minutes; but when he moved to
stroke her dark head, and say, "What is it, Mary? what troubles you?"
she could only say that it was cold, very cold, and then go away again
about her work.

Sometimes an anguish would seize him, when he saw how pale and thin she
grew, and he would send for the village doctor, and beg him to give her
some "stuff" that would make her plump and rosy again; but the good man
shook his head, and said she needed nothing, only care and