"No doubt the sunset gilds it finely; but not more than the sunrise doesthis house, perhaps."

"This house? The sun is a good sun, but it never gilds this house. Whyshould it? This old house is rotting. That makes it so mossy. In themorning, the sun comes in at this old window, to be sure--boarded up,when first we came; a window I can't keep clean, do what I may--and halfburns, and nearly blinds me at my sewing, besides setting the flies andwasps astir--such flies and wasps as only lone mountain houses know.See, here is the curtain--this apron--I try to shut it out with then. Itfades it, you see. Sun gild this house? not that ever Marianna saw."

"Because when this roof is gilded most, then you stay here within."

"The hottest, weariest hour of day, you mean? Sir, the sun gilds notthis roof. It leaked so, brother newly shingled all one side. Did younot see it? The north side, where the sun strikes most on what the rainhas wetted. The sun is a good sun; but this roof, in first scorches,and then rots. An old house. They went West, and are long dead, theysay, who built it. A mountain house. In winter no fox could den in it.That chimney-place has been blocked up with snow, just like a hollowstump."

"Yours are strange fancies, Marianna."

"They but reflect the things."

"Then I should have said, 'These are strange things,' rather than,'Yours are strange fancies.'"

"As you will;" and took up her sewing.

Something in those quiet words, or in that quiet act, it made me muteagain; while, noting, through the fairy window, a broad shadow stealingon, as cast by some gigantic condor, floating at brooding poise onoutstretched wings, I marked how, by its deeper and inclusive dusk, itwiped away into itself all lesser shades of rock or fern.

"You watch the cloud," said Marianna.

"No, a shadow; a cloud's, no doubt--though that I cannot see. How didyou know it? Your eyes are on your work."

"It dusked my work. There, now the cloud is gone, Tray comes back."