THE WINDOW

I sat looking from my window across the valley which was filling with mist; it blew softly against the sides of the hills and enveloped them. It moved so inevitably, nothing could stop it: soon everything would be swallowed by it. The river could still be seen with its black rocks, the silver water pounding over them and the rough road threading its way through the damp clouds to the bridge.

I got up from the window-seat and went to the fire to build it up into more warmth and brightness until the low ceiling of the room glowed softly and light shot from every small bright object.

Here I was, quiet, and no one could find me. I was remote and alone save for the woman who boiled the kettle in the kitchen and moved softly through the house. The cat which lay by me had that expression of lofty indolence which most cats have—it too seemed to approve of this remoteness and quietness. And as I sat there in that room it seemed as if I had always sat there with the silence and the soft, slight, glowing warmth. It seemed as if the mist had always blown against the pane and clouded it, and as if the silence could not be broken by my utterance.

Down there the road wound eternally away and no one could be seen. The river flowed over and around those wet black rocks; its rushing was the only noise, and the bare branches and twigs wet from the mist were hung with drops of water.