“I can’t help it,” Ma answered. “I don’t feel right about your going. I have a feeling—it’s just foolishness, I guess.”
Pa laughed. “I’ll bring in the woodpile, just in case I do have to stay in town.”
He filled the woodbox and piled wood high around it. Ma urged him to put on an extra pair of socks, to keep his feet from being frost-bitten. So Laura brought the bootjack and Pa pulled off his boots and drew another pair of socks over those he already wore. Ma gave him a new pair which she had just finished knitting of thick, warm wool.
“I do wish you had a buffalo overcoat,” said Ma. “That old coat is worn so thin.”
“And I wish you had some diamonds,” said Pa. “Don’t you worry, Caroline. It won’t be long till spring.”
Pa smiled at them while he buckled the belt of his old, threadbare overcoat and put on his warm felt cap.
“That wind is so bitter cold, Charles,” Ma worried. “Do pull down the earlaps.”
“Not this morning!” said Pa. “Let the wind whistle! Now you girls be good, all of you, till I come back.” And his eyes twinkled at Laura as he shut the door behind him.
After Laura and Mary had washed and wiped the dishes, swept the floor, made their bed, and dusted, they settled down with their books. But the house was so cosy and pretty that Laura kept looking up at it.
The black stove was polished till it gleamed. A kettle of beans was bubbling on its top and bread was baking in the oven. Sunshine slanted through the shining windows between the pink-edged curtains. The red-checked cloth was on the table. Beside the clock on its shelf stood Carrie’s little brown-and-white dog, and Laura’s sweet jewel-box. And the little pink-and-white shepherdess stood smiling on the wood-brown bracket.
Ma had brought her mending-basket to her rocking-chair by the window, and Carrie sat on the footstool by her knee. While Ma rocked and mended, she heard Carrie say her letters in the primer. Carrie told big A and little a, big B and little b, then she laughed and talked and looked at the pictures. She was still so little that she did not have to keep quiet and study.
The clock struck twelve. Laura watched its pendulum wagging, and the black hands moving on the round white face. It was time for Pa to come home. The beans were cooked, the br
ead was baked. Everything was ready for Pa’s dinner.
Laura’s eyes strayed to the window. She stared a moment before she knew that something was wrong with the sunshine.
“Ma!” she cried, “the sun is a funny color.”
Ma looked up from her mending, startled. She went quickly into the bedroom, where she could see the north-west, and she came quietly back.
“You may put away your books, girls,” she said. “Bundle up and bring in more wood. If Pa hasn’t started home he will stay in town and we will need more wood in the house.”
From the woodpile Laura and Mary saw the dark cloud coming. They hurried, they ran, but there was time only to get into the house with their armloads of wood before the storm came howling. It seemed angry that they had got the two loads of wood. Snow whirled so thickly that they could not see the doorstep, and Ma said:
“That will do for now. The storm can’t get much worse, and Pa may come in a few minutes.”
Mary and Laura took off their wraps and warmed their cold-stiff hands. Then they waited for Pa.
The wind shrieked and howled and jeered around the house. Snow swished against the blank windows. The long black hand of the clock moved slowly around its face, the short hand moved to one, and then to two.
Ma dished up three bowls of the hot beans. She broke into pieces a small loaf of the fresh warm bread.
“Here, girls,” she said. “You might as well eat your dinner. Pa must have stayed in town.” She had forgotten to fill a bowl for herself.
Then she forgot to eat until Mary reminded her. Even then she did not really eat; she said she was not hungry.
The storm was growing worse. The house trembled in the wind. Cold crept over the floor, and powdery snow was driven in around the windows and the doors that Pa had made so tight.
“Pa has surely stayed in town,” Ma said. “He will stay there all night, and I’d better do the chores now.”
She drew on Pa’s old, tall stable-boots. Her little feet were lost in them, but they would keep out the snow. She fastened Pa’s jumper snug at her throat and belted it around her waist. She tied her hood and put on her mittens.
“May I go with you, Ma?” Laura asked.
“No,” said Ma. “Now listen to me. Be careful of fire. Nobody but Mary is to touch the stove, no matter how long I am gone. Nobody is to go outdoors, or even open a door, till I come back.”
She hung the milk-pail on her arm, and reached through the whirling snow till she got hold of the clothes-line. She shut the back door behind her.