Always before the memories which clung about every corner of the dark old house had helped her, but now she was forced to face a crisis which none of her people had known.  It was not one of the hardships of life which were to be accepted, and the hot rebellion of her girlhood burned in her aching old heart.  She thought resentfully of the doctor’s blind and stony lack of understanding.  His last ironic sentence came to her mind and she flamed at the recollection.  Yes, it did take the whole valley to hold her, the valley which was as much a part of her as her eyes which beheld it.  There were moments when she stood under the hazy autumn sky, so acutely conscious of every line and color of the great wall of mountains surrounding her that she grew in very fact to be an indivisible portion of the whole—­felt herself as actually rooted to that soil and as permanent under that sky as the great elm before the door.

She made no more outcries against fate to her husband, partly because of the anguish which came upon his gentle old face at the sight of her suffering, and partly because she felt herself to have no tangible reason for rebellion.  During the last years they had gone drearily around and around the circle which they felt closing so inexorably upon them, and there was no longer any use to wear themselves out in futile discussions of impossible plans.  They had both been trained to regard reasonableness as one of the cardinal virtues, and to the mild nature of the old man it was a natural one, so they tried conscientiously to force themselves not only to act, but to feel, “like sensible folks,” as they put it bravely to themselves.

“Other folks have gone to live with their children, and not near such good sons as Hiram either, and they didn’t make such a fuss about it,” said Mr. Prentiss one evening, out of a long silence, as they sat in front of the hearth.  He looked at his wife, hoping for a cheerful response, but her lips were set in a quivering line of pain, and the flickering light showed her fair broad face glistening with tears.  “Oh, mother!” he cried, in a helpless misery of sympathy.  “Oh, mother, don’t!  I can’t stand it!  If I could only do it for you!  But we can’t stay, you know.”

The other nodded dumbly, although after a moment she said, “Every day I live all my life over again, and my mother’s, and all my folks.  It has never seemed as though they really died as long as we lived here same as they did.  It’s like killing them all again to go away and sell the house to strangers.”

There was a silence and then, “Oh, Nathaniel, what was that?” she cried, her voice rising in a quaver of apprehension.

“The wind,” said her husband, stirring the fire.

“I know.  But what wind?  It sounds like the first beginning of the wind over Eagle Rock, and that means snow!”

She hastened heavily to the window, and raised the shade.  “There’s a ring around the moon as plain as my wedding ring!” And then as she looked there clung to the window-pane a single flake of snow, showing ghastly white in the instant before it melted.