CHAPTER XII 

 The Frozen Fountain 



All day the wind has been blowing from 

 the north, and dull grey clouds cover the sky. 



I awake at home in the morning to find my 

 Southland clothed in the ermine robe of the 

 North — more dazzling in beauty, true; but 

 cold, still, white and deathlike. 



The green leaves of the magnolias bend 

 and curve and shrink under their burden, 

 and their satin finger-tips flash with a strange 

 brilliance against the snow's canvas. 



The berries of the holly seem groups of 

 tiny altar candles smothered beneath the 

 storm's blanket. 



When the first boyish exhilaration passes — 

 the inheritance of childhood's memories 

 — a feeling of sadness creeps over me. The 



