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"How it blows," he said, as the wind shook the windows of his room, and
went screaming around the corner of the house. "How it blows, and I seem
to hear voices in the storm--your voice, Hannah, as it sounded thirty
years ago, when you cried out so loudly, and I struck you for it, and
beat old Rover, too. Do you remember it?"
"Yes, yes, father, but don't talk of it to-day; try to forget; try to
think only that Grey is here, and that you will see him to-morrow."
"Grey, the boy with the big blue eyes which look so straight at you that
I used sometimes to wonder if he did not see into my heart and know what
I was hiding?" the old man replied. "Grey, the little boy who would sit
on that bench in the woodshed, and kick the floor until I sweat at every
pore with fear, and whom I would not touch till he captured my hands,
and held them in his soft, warm ones, and kissed them, too, my wicked
old hands, kissed by Grey's baby lips. Would he touch them now if he
knew? I used to think if I lived till he was a man I would tell him; and
maybe you will do it after I am dead.


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