there looking out.

I went over beside him. From the window we could see the three rows of
yellow lights that marked the house, and somebody with a lantern was
going down the path toward the stables. Mr. Pierce leaned forward, his
hands at the top of the window-sash, and put his forehead against the
glass.

"Why is it that a lighted window in a snow-storm always makes a fellow
homesick?" he said in his half-mocking way. "If he hasn't got a home it
makes him want one."

"Well, why don't you get one?" I asked.

"On nothing a year?" he said. "Not even prospects! And set up
housekeeping in the shelter-house with my good friend Minnie carrying
us food and wearing herself to a shadow, not to mention bringing trashy
books to my bride."

"She isn't that kind," I broke in, and got red. I'd been thinking of
Miss Patty. But he went over to the table and picked up his glass of
spring water, only to set it down untasted.

"No, she's not that kind!" he agreed, and never noticed the slip.

"You know, Minnie, women aren't all alike, but they're not all
different. An English writer has them classified to a T--there's the
mother woman--that's you. You're always mothering somebody with that
maternal spirit of yours. It's a pity it's vicarious."