The next morning Holcroft awoke early. The rising sun flooded his plain
little room with mellow light. It was impossible to give way to dejection in
that radiance, and hope, he scarcely knew why, sprung up in his heart. He was
soon dressed, and having kindled the kitchen fire, went out on the porch.
There had been a change in the wind during the night, and now it blew softly
from the south. The air was sweet with the indefinable fragrance of spring.
The ethereal notes of bluebirds were heard on every side. Migratory robins
were feeding in the orchard, whistling and calling their noisy congratulations
on arriving at old haunts. The frost was already oozing from the ground, but
the farmer welcomed the mud, knowing that it indicated a long advance toward
plowing and planting time.

He bared his head to the sweet, warm air and took long, deep breaths. "If this
weather holds," he muttered, "I can soon put in some early potatoes on that
warm hillside yonder. Yes, I can stand even her for the sake of being on the
old place in mornings like this. The weather'll be getting better every day
and I can be out of doors more. I'll have a stove in my room tonight; I would
last night if the old air-tight hadn't given out completely. I'll take it to
town this afternoon and sell it for old iron. Then I'll get a bran'-new one
and put it up in my room. They can't follow me there and they can't follow me
outdoors, and so perhaps I can live in peace and work most of the time."

Thus he was muttering to himself, as lonely people so often do, when he felt
that someone was near. Turning suddenly, he saw Jane half-hidden by the
kitchen door. Finding herself observed, the girl came forward and said in her
brief monotonous way:

"Mother'll be down soon. If you'll show me how you want the coffee and
things, I guess I can learn."