One of her kitchen aprons, caught in the current of air from the opened door, blew about on its hook.  He remembered her, on many a wintry day, buttoned into just such a crisp apron, radiantly busy and brisk in her kitchen, stirring and chopping, moving constantly between stove and table.  With strong hands still showing traces of flour she would come to sit beside him at the piano, to play a duet with her characteristic dash and finish, only to jump up in sudden compunction, with an exclamation:  “Oh, my ducks—­I’d forgotten them!  Oh, the poor little wretches!”

And she would be gone, leaving a streak of wet, fresh air through the warm house from the open door, and he would perhaps glance from a window to see her, roughly coated and booted, ploughing about her duck yard, delving into barrels of grain, turning on faucets, wielding a stubby old broom.

She loved her life, he mused, with a bitter heartache, as he stood here in her empty room.  Sometimes he had marvelled at the complete and unquestioning joy she had brought to it.  Books, puzzles, music, and fires sufficed her in the few hours that she ever spent in her own drawing room.  For the rest she had the kitchen and the farmyard, and the world out of doors, the oaks and the grass, the great stretches of dim forest, the muddy trails, the blowing airs on the crest of the ridge that made her shout and stagger in their wild onslaught.  Peter reminded himself that never in their years together had he heard her complain about anything, or seem to feel bored or at a loss.

“We’ve always thought of Cherry as the child!” he thought.  “But it was she, Alix, who was the real child.  She never grew up.  She never entered into the time of moods and self-analysis and jealousies and desires!  She would have played and picnicked all her life——­”

His heart pressed like a dull pain in his chest.  Dully, quietly, he went out to the fire again, and dully and quietly moved through the day.  Her books and music might stand as they were, her potted ferns and her scattered small possessions—­the sewing-basket that she always handled with a boy’s awkwardness, and the camera she used so well—­should keep their places.  But he went to her desk, thinking in this long, solitary evening, to destroy various papers that she might wish destroyed before the cabin was deserted.  And here he found her letter.

He found it only after he had somewhat explored the different small drawers and pigeonholes of the desk, drawers and pigeonholes which were, to his surprise, all in astonishing order for Alix.  Everything was marked, tied, pocketed; her accounts were balanced, and if she had anywhere left private papers, they were at least nowhere to be found.

Seeing in all this a dread confirmation of his first suspicion of her death, Peter nevertheless experienced a shock when he found her letter.  It had been placed in an empty drawer, face up, and was sealed, and addressed simply with his name.