The snow snapped
and tore under their feet; there was a glorious moon that
observed every tattered weed sticking up through the
whiteness, and etched it with its shadow. The town lay
under the moon almost dramatic, almost mysterious, so
withdrawn it was out of the cold, so turned in upon its
own soul of the fireplace. It might have stood, in the
snow and the silence, for a shell and a symbol of the
humanity within, for angels or other strangers to mark
with curiosity. Mr and Mrs Murchison were neither angels
nor strangers; they looked at it and saw that the Peterson
place was still standing empty, and that old Mr Fisher
hadn't finished his new porch before zero weather came
to stop him.
The young people were well ahead; Mrs Murchison, on her
husband's arm, stepped along with the spring of an impetus
undisclosed.
"Is it to be the Doctor tonight?" asked John Murchison.
"He was so hoarse this morning I wouldn't be surprised
to see Finlay in the pulpit. They're getting only morning
services in East Elgin just now, while they're changing
the lighting arrangements."
"Are they, indeed? Well, I hope they'll change them and
be done with it, for I can't say I'm anxious for too much
of their Mr Finlay in Knox Church."
"Oh, you like the man well enough for a change, Mother!"
John assured her.
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