and my father
worked hard to get things for her, things she must have. But one night
she died--it was a cold night in winter. He and I were alone with her.
I'll not soon forget that. I sat up on the cot where I slept and saw my
father sitting on the bed looking down at my mother. They were both
still, and he wouldn't answer or turn his head when I spoke. Then I
cried, for it was cold in the little cabin and my father's stillness
scared me. But I don't think he heard me crying. He kept looking down at
my mother's face, even when I called to him as loud as I could. Then I
was afraid to see him that way any longer, so I pulled the blankets over
my head and I must have cried myself to sleep.

"He was sitting the same way when I woke in the morning, still looking
at my mother's face. Even when the people came to take her away he kept
silent--and while they put her in the ground in a great, snowy field
with little short waves all over it. And when we were back in the cabin
not a word could I get from him, nor a look. He just sat on the bed
again, looking at her pillow.

"In the evening some one brought a letter. I lighted a candle and took
this letter to him, crowding it into his hand. I wanted him to notice
me. I saw him study the envelope, then tear it open and look at a little
slip of green paper that fell out. It was money, you understand, for
pictures he had sent to New York. I knew this at once. I'd heard them
talk of its coming and of wonderful things they'd do with it when it
did come. I was glad in an instant, for I thought that now we could get
my mother back out of the ground. I was sure we could when he held the
green slip close to the candle and began to laugh. It wasn't the way he
usually laughed, it was louder and longer, but it was the first sound
I'd heard from him, and it made me happy. I began to laugh myself as
loud as I could, and danced before him, and his laugh went still higher
at that. I ran for my jacket and mittens and cap. I wanted him to stop
laughing and hurry along. I pulled his arm and he stopped laughing and
looked down at me. I shouted 'Hurry--let's hurry and bring her back--let
me carry the money!' He caught my shoulder and looked so astonished,
then he burst into that loud laugh again, after he'd made me say it
over. I ran for his overcoat, too, but when I came with it I saw he
wasn't laughing at all. He was crying, and it was so much like his laugh
that I hadn't noticed the change."

H