it. She heard
him repeating it in a childish sing-song--"Tell him I'm busy and
can't come; tell him I'm busy and can't come"--as he went out of the
yard, slanting his old body before the south wind. The wind blew from
the south that day in great gusts as warm as summer; the air was full
of the sounds of running water, of sweet, interrupted tinkles and
sudden gurgles and steady outpourings as from a thousand pitchers.
The snow was going fast; here and there were bare patches that showed
a green shimmer across the wind. Sometimes spring comes with a rush
to New England on the 1st of April.

That afternoon Madelon went to meeting and sang again, and when she
got home Margaret Bean was waiting for her, sitting, a motionless,
swaddled figure, beside a window. The Hautvilles never locked their
doors while away from home, and she had walked in and waited at her
ease until Madelon should return.

Madelon came in alone; her father, Abner, and Eugene had stopped in
the barn to look after the roan, who had gone somewhat lame in one
foot, and Louis and Richard had lagged. Margaret Bean stood up when
Madelon entered.

"You'd better come over," said she.

"Didn't I tell your husband I couldn't?" returned Madelon, harshly.

"You'd better, I guess."

"I've got my father's and brothers' supper to get, and other things
to see to. Tell him he must leave me in peace to-day, or I'll never
come." Madelon's voice rose high and strident. She unfastened her
cloak as if it choked her. Margaret looked at her, her small black
eyes peering out wrathfully from her swathing woollens. She was as
much wrapped up on this mild day as she had been when the cold was
intense. A certain dogged attitude towards the weather Margaret Bean
always took. On Thanksgiving Day she donned her winter garments; on
May Day she exchanged them for her summer ones, regardless of the
temperature. She never made any compromises or concessions. She
sweltered in her full regalia of wools on mild spring days; she
weathered the early November blasts in her straw bonnet and silk
shawl, without an extra kerchief around her stiff old neck. To-day
she would not loosen her wraps as she sat waiting for Madelon in the
warm room, but remained all securely pinned and tied as when she
entered.

However, her discomfort, although she would not yield to it, aroused
her temper. "You'd better come," said she, "or you'll be sorry."

Madelon made no reply.

"He's sick," said Margar