y there was a great snow-storm--the last of the season. There
had been many such that winter. Snow fell upon snow, and the bare
ground was never seen. This time the storm lasted two days. On the
morning of the third the sun came out and the wind blew. There was a
northern gale all day. The new snow arose like a white spirit from
its downfall, and was again all abroad in the air. It moved across
the fields in great diamond-glittering shafts; it crested itself over
the brows of hills in flashing waves; it lengthened its sharp slants
of white light from hour to hour against the windward sides of the
fences and houses.

On the morning of the next day everything was still. The snow lay
transfixed in blue whirlpools around the trees; the fields were full
of frozen eddies, and the hill-tops curled with white wave-crests
which never broke. There was a dead calm, and the mercury was
fourteen degrees below zero. Everything seemed in the white region of
death after the delirium of storm. That morning Madelon Hautville,
after her household tasks were done, sat down again to sew her
wedding-dress. The silk was of changeable tints, and flashed in
patches of green and gold as it lay over her knee and swept around
her to the floor.

All the others had gone, but presently, as she sewed, Richard came in
with some parcels. He had been on an errand to the store. He tossed
the packages on the dresser, then he went and stood directly in front
of his sister, looking at her.

"I want to know if it's true," said he.

Then Madelon knew that he had heard. "Yes," said she.

"And that is--" Richard pointed at the silk.

"Yes."

Richard continued to look at his sister and the gorgeous silk. There
was consternation in his look, and withal a certain relief. Boy as he
was, he reasoned it out astutely. If Madelon married Lot Gordon the
merest shadow of suspicion that her confession had been true would
not cling to her, and Richard hated Burr, and was fiercely triumphant
that he should not think his sister dying for love of him; and then
Burr would lose the Gordon money.

All at once Madelon rose up, let her silk breadths slip rustling to
the floor, and took Richard by the shoulder. "Richard," she said,
"why could you not have told the truth about the knife, and not
forced me to this? Why could you not?"

The boy looked aside from her doggedly. "I don't know what you mean
about a knife," said he, but his voice shook.

"Yes, you do know, Ri