The
air was clear now, and the sleet had frozen to a thin crystal layer, a
presage of winter, which glistened under the clear stars and sent them
shivering up at me again. As I neared the mill house, I could hear
voices through its scanty boarding, and decided, for the moment, to go
on, following the bed of the creek, when an intonation, oddly familiar,
brought me up like the crack of a whip. It is strange the power that
sounds have to transport us, and again I saw a withered woman with
straw-colored hair and a small, oblong bundle in a patch-work quilt.
But, as I drew nearer, my thoughts were all for Lisbeth.
"Have my girl in town with that young _puppy_!" Old Con was rasping at
her. "I know these artist-fellows, I tell you and--"
He ripped out an oath that took me bounding up the steps. My hand on the
front door knob, however, I paused, catching sight of Lisbeth through
the window. She was standing with her back towards the inner door her
moth-like dress blending oddly with the pallor of her cheeks, the
smudgy glow of the lamp light laying little warm patches on her hair.
But it was her eyes, wide and dark, that stopped me. There was pain in
them, and purport, a certain fierce intention, that made me wonder if I
could not serve her better where I was.
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