He added no word to Etta's persuasions, but stood gravely looking at his wife.
When the door had closed behind them, Maggie stood for some minutes by the window looking out over the snow-clad plain, the rugged, broken rocks beneath her.
Then she turned to the writing-table.

She resolutely took pen and paper, but the least thing seemed to distract her attention--the coronet on the note-paper cost her five minutes of far-off reflection.

She took up the pen again, and wrote "Dear Mother." The room grew darker.

Maggie looked up.

The snow had begun again.