SNOW fell, covering the scarred earth with its deep and merciful white. The baby will love the winter, Kate thought, looking out at the snow-thickened branches, the white fur hats on the gateposts, little Hoagland Driggs with his red cheeks and red muffler being pulled past on his sled by the Driggs' hired man. She was miserable, she was frightened, tears came for nothing at all, but deep in her heart lay a still clear happiness, a promise she never doubted.
Spring came, with mud and crocuses. Kate felt well and cheerful again, strolling in what she tried to remember to call the garden, instead of the back yard, feeling the delicate warmth of the sun; or lying on the studio divan, listening to the rain on the skylight. She had her days of despair, orgies of gloom when she planned with tender sorrow for her motherless baby and bade poor Joe exalted farewells; she had hours when she was gossiping with Carrie, eating something she liked, or reading the new novels Joe brought her, when she forgot completely that she was going to do such an important and grown-up thing as have a baby. She had breath-stopping moments when she was caught up, beyond words, beyond thought, to look wide-eyed into the blazing sun.
