And there was beauty, too, everywhere. Sometimes Pat thought the winter woods with their white reserve and fearlessly displayed nakedness seemed the rarest and finest of all. You never knew how beautiful a tree really was until you saw it leafless against a pearl-gray winter sky. And was there ever anything quite so perfect as the birch grove in a pale-rose twilight after a fine calm fall of snow?

In the stormy evenings Silver Bush, snug and sheltered, holding love, laughed defiance through its lighted windows at the gray night full of driving snow. They all crowded into Judy’s kitchen and ate apples and candy, while happy cats purred and a wheezy little dog who, alas, was growing old and a bit deaf, snored at Pat’s feet. Wild and weird or gay and thrilling were the tales told by Judy and Tillytuck in a rivalry that sometimes convulsed the Silver Bush folks. Judy had taken to locating most of her yarns in Ireland and when she told a gruesome tale of the man who had made a bargain with the Bad Man Below and broke it Tillytuck could not possibly claim to have known or been the man.

“What was the bargain, Judy?”

“Oh, oh, it was for his wife’s life. She was to live as long as he niver prayed to God. But if he prayed to God she wud die and he was to belong to Ould Satan foriver. Sure and she lived for minny a year. And thin me fine man got a bit forgetful-like and one day whin the pig bruk its leg he sez, sez he, in a tragic tone, ‘Oh God!’ sez he. And his wife did be dying that very night.”

“But that wasn’t a prayer, Judy.”

“Oh, oh, but it was. Whin ye cry on God like that in inny trouble it do be a prayer. The Bad Man Below knew it well.”

“What became of the husband, Judy?”

“Oh, oh, he was taken away,” said Judy, contriving to convey a suggestion of indescribable eeriness that sent a shiver down everybody’s back. Satisfied with the effect she remarked deprecatingly,

“But listen to me prating av ould days. I’d be better imployed setting me bread.”

And while Judy set the bread Tillytuck would spin a yarn of being chased by wolves one moonlit night while skating and told it so well that everyone shuddered pleasantly. But Judy said coldly,

“I did be rading that very story, Tillytuck, in Long Alec’s ould Royal Rader in me blue chist.”

“I daresay you read something like it,” retorted Tillytuck unabashed. “I never claimed to be the only man chased by wolves.”

Then they all had “a liddle bite” and went to bed, snuggled warm and cozy while the winds ravened outside.