The window was shut; there was
a smell of varnish and whatever was inside the "suite"
of which Mrs Crow occupied the sofa. Enlarged photographs
--very much enlarged--of Mr and Mrs Crow hung upon the
walls, and one other of a young girl done in that process
which tells you at once that she was an only daughter
and that she is dead. There had been other bereavements;
they were written upon the silver coffin-plates which,
framed and glazed, also contributed to the decoration of
the room; but you would have had to look close, and you
might feel a delicacy.
Mrs Crow made her greetings with precision, and sat down
again upon the sofa for a few minutes' conversation.
"I'm telling them," said her husband, "that the sleighin's
just held out for them. If it 'ud been tomorrow they'd
have had to come on wheels. Pretty soft travellin' as it
was, some places, I guess."
"Snow's come early this year," said Mrs Crow. "It was an
open fall, too."
"It has certainly," Mr Farquharson backed her up. "About
as early as I remember it. I don't know how much you got
out here; we had a good foot in Elgin."
"'Bout the same, 'bout the same," Mr Crow deliberated,
"but it's been layin' light all along over Clayfield
way--ain't had a pair of runners out, them folks."
"Makes a more cheerful winter, Mrs Crow, don't you think,
when it comes early?" remarked Lorne.
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