The Frozen Fountain 133 



window and stand for an hour gazing over 

 the freezing waters. My wife is softly play- 

 ing the piano. Her music has always been 

 a joy to me. Yet, somehow, to-day each 

 sweet note is heavy with tears and their 

 sub-tones begin to stir memories of another 

 life in another world. The wind howls and 

 moans without and sweeps my soul now 

 with desolation. 



Yes, there is something the matter with 

 me. Perhaps, after all, I'm not well. Yet 

 my face is bronzed and hardened and every 

 muscle tense as steel. I never felt stronger, 

 and my heart beats with the conscious stroke 

 of new and enormous reserve powers. Per- 

 haps I have come home from hunting too 

 soon. No, I'm just a little tired of hunting. 

 The last quail I shot fluttered pathetically in 

 my hand, and left a tiny blood-mark on my 

 finger. And I thought of it afterwards. I 

 did not enjoy the quail on toast for break- 

 fast quite as well as usual. 



