His mother could scarcely hear it in the pantry when she went in there to set away the supper dishes.

She shut the door every time, lest her son should feel the icy air from the fireless closet.

She had always a belief that Jim was delicate, and took a certain pride in it, although she could not have told why.
Everything that was in the least likely to freeze to its injury had to be removed from the cold pantry and set on the hearth that bitter night.

It was quite a while before her soft, heavy pattering, which jarred the house when she stepped on certain parts of the floor, ceased, and she took her knitting-work and sat down in her rocking-chair opposite her son.
Jim continued to fiddle, touching the strings as if his fingers were muffled with down.

The wind whistled more loudly than his fiddle; it had increased, and the cold with it.