about his feet.




XV


When Gabriella awoke on that same morning after the storm, she too
ascertained that her shutters could not be opened. But Gabriella
did not go down into the kitchen for hot water to melt the ice from
the bolts and hinges. She fled back across the cold matting to the
high-posted big bed and cuddled down solitary into its warmth
again, tucking the counterpane under her chin and looking out from
the pillows with eyes as fresh as flowers. Flowers in truth
Gabriella's eyes were--the closing and disclosing blossoms of a
sweet nature. Somehow they made you think of earliest spring, of
young leaves, of the flutings of birds deep within a glade sifted
with golden light, fragrant with white fragrance. They had their
other seasons: their summer hours of angry flash and swift
downpour; their autumn days of still depths and soberness, and
autumn nights of long, quiet rainfalls when no one knew. One season
they lacked: Gabriella's eyes had no winter,

Brave spirit! Had nature not inclined her to spring rather than
autumn, had she not inherited joyousness and the temperamental
gayety of the well-born, she must long ago have failed, broken
down. Behind her were generations of fathers and mothers who had
laughed heartily all their days. The simple gift of wholesome
laughter, often the best as often the only remedy for so many