Then,
". . . there fell from out the skies
A feathery whiteness over all the land;
A strange, soft, spotless something, pure as light."
It could not be called a storm, for there had been no wind since
sunrise, no whirling fury, no drifting; only a still, steady,
solemn fall of crystal flakes, hour after hour, hour after hour.
Mrs. Boynton's Book of books was open on the bed and her finger
marked a passage in her favorite Bible-poet.
"Here it is, daughter," she whispered. "I have found it, in the
same chapter where the morning stars sing together and the sons
of God shout for joy. The Lord speaks to Job out of the whirlwind
and says: 'HAST THOU ENTERED INTO THE TREASURES OF THE SNOW? OR
HAST THOU SEEN THE TREASURES OF THE HAIL?' Sit near me,
Waitstill, and look out on the hills. 'HAST THOU ENTERED INTO THE
TREASURES OF THE SNOW?' No, not yet, but please God, I shall, and
into many other treasures, soon"; and she closed her eyes.
All day long the air-ways were filled with the glittering army of
the snowflakes; all day long the snow grew deeper and deeper on
the ground; and on the breath of some white-winged wonder that
passed Lois Boynton's window her white soul forsook its
"earth-lot" and took flight at last.
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