kindness,--kindness, he repeated, with some emphasis, after a glance at
De Arthenay's face, and good food. "Cheerfulness," he said, buttoning
up his fur coat under his chin,--"cheerfulness, Mr. De Arthenay, and
plenty of good things to eat. That's all she needs." And he went away
wondering whether the little creature would pull through the winter or
not.

And Jacques did not throw the food into the fire any more; he even
tried to think about it, and care about it. And he got out the
Farmer's Almanac,--yes, he did,--and tried reading the jokes aloud, to
see if they would amuse Mary; but they did not amuse her in the least,
or him either, so that was given up. And so the winter wore on.

It had to end sometime; even that winter could not last forever. The
iron grasp relaxed: fitfully at first, with grim clutches and snatches
at its prey, gripping it the closer because it knew the time was near
when all power would go, drop off like a garment, melt away like a
stream. The unchanging snow-forms began to shift, the keen outlines
wavered, grew indistinct, fell into ruin, as the sun grew warm again,
and sent down rays that were no longer like lances of diamond. The
glittering face in the hollow of the great drift lost its watchful
look, softened, grew dim and blurred; one morning it was gone. That
day Marie sang a little song, the first she had sung through all the
long, cruel season. She drew up the blind and gazed out; she wrapped a
shawl round her head and went and stood at the door, afraid of nothing
now, not even thinking of making those tiresome horns. She was aware
of something new in the air she breathed. It was still cold, but with
a difference; there was a breathing as of life, where all had been dry,
cold death. There was a sense of awakening everywhere; whispers seemed
to come and go in the tops of the pine-trees, telling of coming things,