Across the road from Jacques De Arthenay's house, a huge drift had been piled by the first snowstorm of the winter.

Nearly as high as the house it was, and its top combed forward, like a wave ready to break; and in the blue hollow beneath the curling crest was the likeness of a great face.

A rock cropped out, and ice had formed upon its surface, so that the snow fell away from it.

The explanation was simple enough; Jacques De Arthenay, coming and going at his work, never so much as looked at it; but to Marie it was a strange and a dreadful thing to see.

Night and morning, in the cold blue light of the winter moon and the bright hard glitter of the winter sun, the face was always there, gazing in at her through the window, seeing everything she did, perhaps--who could tell ?--seeing everything she thought.