has—what a mastery! I wish I had her strength—she just marches straight through in the right way—I think she’s fine.”
I laughed to see her so enthusiastic in her admiration of my sister. Marie is such a gentle, serious little soul. She went to the window. I kissed her, and pulled two berries off the mistletoe. I made her a nest in the heavy curtains, and she sat there looking out on the snow.
“It is lovely,” she said reflectively. “People must be ill when they write like Maxim Gorky.”
“They live in town,” said I.
“Yes—but then look at Hardy—life seems so terrible—it isn’t, is it?”
“If you don’t feel it, it isn’t—if you don’t see it. I don’t see it for myself.”
“It’s lovely enough for heaven.”
“Eskimo’s heaven perhaps. And we’re the angels eh? And I’m an archangel.”
“No, you’re a vain, frivolous man. Is that—? What is that moving through the trees?”
“Somebody coming,” said I.
It was a big, burly fellow moving curiously through the bushes.
“Doesn’t he walk funnily?” exclaimed Marie. He did. When he came near enough we saw he was straddled upon Indian snow-shoes. Marie peeped, and laughed, and peeped, and hid again in the curtains laughing. He was very red, and looked very hot, as he hauled the great meshes, shuffling over the snow; his body rolled most comically. I went to the door and admitted him, while Marie stood stroking
