She sank into her seat almost fainting.

Her son looked at her soberly. "Maybe you'd better go away somewhere,"
he suggested.

The thought offended her. Shaking her head in dissent, she said:

"No, it's all the same. What for?"

It was the end of November. During the day a dry, fine snow had
fallen upon the frozen earth, and now she heard it crunching outside
the window under her son's feet as he walked away. A dense crust of
darkness settled immovably upon the window panes, and seemed to lie
in hostile watch for something. Supporting herself on the bench,
the mother sat and waited, looking at the door.

It seemed to her that people were stealthily and watchfully walking
about the house in the darkness, stooping and looking about on all
sides, strangely attired and silent. There around the house some
one was already coming, fumbling with his hands along the wall.

A whistle was heard. It circled around like the notes of a fine
chord, sad and melodious, wandered musingly into the wilderness of
darkness, and seemed to be searching for something. It came nearer.
Suddenly it died away under the window, as if it had entered into the
wood of the wall. The noise of feet was heard on the porch. The
mother started, and rose with a strained, frightened look in her eyes.

The door opened. At first a head with a big, shaggy hat thrust
itself into the room; then a slender, bending body crawled in,