That would have been both unjust and absurd, so she set herself
resolutely to overcome that feeling of oppression. She was too
well-balanced to drift unwittingly along this perilous road of thought.
She schooled herself to endure and to fight off introspection. She had
absorbed enough of her husband's sturdy philosophy of life to try and
make the best of a bad job. After all, she frequently assured herself,
the badness of the job was mostly a state of mind. And she had a
growing conviction that Bill sensed the struggle, and that it hurt him.
For that reason, if for no other, she did her best to make light of the
grim environment, and to wait patiently for spring.
February and March stormed a path furiously across the calendar.
Higher and higher the drifts piled about the cabin, till at length it
was banked to the eaves with snow save where Bill shoveled it away to
let light to the windows. Day after day they kept indoors, stoking up
the fire, listening to the triumphant whoop of the winds.
"Snow, snow!" Hazel burst out one day. "Frost that cuts you like a
knife. I wonder if there's ever going to be an end to it? I wish we
were home again--or some place.
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