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Just look at it, Penelope! she exclaimed, a little thrill of enthusiasm in her voice. I never saw it snow harder, or look prettier! Isnt it beautiful!
She turned a pair of soft brown eyes upon a younger woman sitting beside her in a wheel chair, who put down the book she had been reading, and sighed as she answered: Yes, it is beautiful, mother, very beautiful. But when I look at it I cant help thinking how long it will be until spring comes again and I can be out in the yard under the trees.
The mother put out her hand, small and once of the shape that chirognomists call the artistic hand, but now wrinkled, bony and toil-hardened, and rested it gently for a moment upon the mass of dark, waving hair, already well-threaded with gray, that crowned the others head. Her face filled with sympathy but her voice broke cheerfully upon the silence:
Oh, it wont be long now, Penelope, and not a bit longer because of this beautiful storm!
The figure in the wheel chair bent forward again and looked out upon the pearly whiteness of the earth. It was a sad travesty of the human form, undersized, humped and crooked. But it bore a noble head with a broad, full brow and a strong, intellectual face that had in it something of the elder womans sweetness of expression. But in her brown eyes the others softness and wistfulness gave place to a keener, more flashing look that told of a high and soaring spirit. And in the lines of her face was a hint of possible storminess, though it was softened by an expression of self-mastery, eloquent of many an inner battle waged and won.
The window from which they looked commanded one side of their own wide yard, a vacant block, and beyond that a cross-street. The snow was feathering down so fast that it gave to the air a milky translucence through which bulked dimly an occasional traveler on the other thoroughfare. Penelopes eyes fixed themselves upon one of these vague shapes.
Look, mother! she exclaimed. Do you see that man just turning the corner to come this way? It looks like Felix!
So it does! the other cried.
They were both silent for a moment as they gazed intently at the dim figure, gaining definiteness now with each step toward them. It doesnt walk like him, Penelope commented, her face already showing that she knew it was not he. But the mother hung a little longer to her hope. No, it isnt Felix, she presently acquiesced, disappointment evident in her gentle tones. I so hoped it was, at first.
With a firm, rapid stride the young man was coming eagerly up the street, his eyes upon their house. He doesnt walk at all like Felix, Penelope repeated thoughtfully as his figure became more plainly visible through the veiling snow, but its curious how much like him he looks, after all.
See, Penelope! the mother exclaimed, reaching out to grasp her daughters hand in sudden enthusiasm. See how he comes out of the snow mist! Isnt it just like a figure in a dream getting plainer and clearer, and more like life!
Penelope pressed her mothers hand and smiled up at her fondly. Just like you, mother, to make something pretty out of a disappointment!
They gazed at the advancing figure with renewed interest and saw that the man, with slightly slackened pace, seemed to be closely observing their house and yard. What he saw was a one-story red cottage, needing paint, its green window shutters looking old and somewhat dilapidated, its yard, of ample size and dotted with trees and shrubbery, surrounded by a wooden fence in whose palings were occasional breaks and patches. It was a commonplace object in an ordinary winter scene, but he seemed to feel in it the deepest interest. There was even a frown on his brow as his alert glance rested on a broken pane in the kitchen window.
It has been a long time since Felix was here six months, hasnt it, mother? said Penelope, leaning back wearily again as the stranger passed from her range of vision.
Hardly so long as that, dear. It was last fall. But, of course, he is very busy. He hasnt the time to travel around now and go visiting, even over here to see us, that he used to have, before he had begun to be so successful. We mustnt expect too much. As she spoke, her gentle tones as full of indulgence and excuse as her words, she moved to the front window and sought the figure of the stranger, now striding along the snow-covered sidewalk in front of her own yard.
Penelope! Hes coming here! she exclaimed, starting back and dropping the muslin curtain she had pushed aside. Hes turning in at our gate! He does look like Felix a little. Who can it be!
Penelope bent forward to peer through the curtains and saw the man mounting the steps to their little veranda and stamping the snow from his feet. Instantly she wheeled her chair about and sped it into the adjoining room as her mother opened the door to their visitor.
You are Mrs. Brand, I think? Felix Brands mother? he said. I am a friend of his my name is Hugh Gordon and as I was coming to Philadelphia I promised him I would run out here and see you.
As they entered the living room his keen, dark eyes swept it alertly, as they had the exterior of the house. A shade of disappointment crossed his face.
Your daughter? he asked abruptly. May I not see her, too?
Mrs. Brand hesitated. The shyness of her girlhood years still lingered in her manner when in the presence of strangers, and she glanced at her visitor, then at the floor, and her hands fluttered about her lap. Gordons face and eyes softened as he looked at her. There was something very sweet and appealing in the gentle diffidence of this little, plain, elderly woman.
Penelope doesnt often see people anyone, and she is very unwilling to meet strangers. Perhaps Felix told you you know
Yes, I know. I understand how she feels, but I want very much to see her. I know Felix well, and I know a good deal about her, enough to make me honor and admire her very much. Wont you tell her, please, that I came out here particularly to see you and her, and that I shall be much disappointed if I have to go back without meeting both of you?
Penelope soon returned with her mother and both had many questions to ask concerning Felix. Was he well? Was he working harder than he ought? Was his new apartment very beautiful? Had Mr. Gordon seen the plans for the new monument with which he had won in the national competition?
He used to send them photographs, Penelope said, but lately they knew little about his work unless they saw pictures of it in the newspapers.
But, indeed, they didnt expect so much attention from him now, her mother quickly added, for as his work increased and became of so much importance they understood how necessary it was for him to give it all his time and thought.
It would really be selfish, she went on, as I sometimes tell Penelope, to want him to spend time on us, writing long letters, or coming over here, when we know that his success depends upon his devoting all his energies to his work.
Penelope, silent and gazing out of the window, was conscious of Gordons quick glance at her, and was conscious too of the appeal in her mothers wistful brown eyes, which she felt were turned upon her. So many years these two had passed in intimate companionship and in loving ministration on one side and utter dependence on the other, that spoken word was scarcely needed between them to make known the mood of each to the other.
In immediate response she turned, with a smile that lighted up her controlled, intellectual face, and said:
Of course, we quite understand how occupied Felix is all the time, but that doesnt keep us from liking to know about him. So your visit, Mr. Gordon, is quite a godsend, and you mustnt be surprised that we ask you so many questions about Felix and want to know all about him and what he is doing.