University of Virginia Library

50. CHAPTER L.
THE LADY OF THE SNOW.

In three or four days—thanks to the assiduous care of Fanny,
more especially—the poor, faint “Lady of the Snow,” as Puccoon
called her, with rude poetry, began to recover her strength, returning
to life, as it were, from the threshold of the grave.

They looked upon her with the deepest pity and sympathy—this
rough trapper and simple-hearted girl. With the truest courtesy,
they had not asked her a single question. Her coming to the rude
cabin had seemed to be regarded by them as a matter of course.
It is the human being in broad-cloth, with a bell to be rung at his
door, and a servant to answer it, who looks upon the unknown as
essentially the suspicious, and demands a letter of introduction.
The Arab in his tent, and the hunter in his cabin say: “Enter,
friend, you are welcome!”

It seemed, indeed, the very simplest thing in the world to Puccoon
and little Fanny that they should give shelter, food, and care
to the poor unknown “Lady of the Snow.” And they took such
good care of her—Fanny surrendering her own bed to her, and
sleeping on a pallet on the floor—that in those three or four days
a faint tinge of color came back to her cheeks, and she could walk
without tottering. In the eyes of the trapper and his daughter she
was beautiful beyond expression. Her face was thin and pale, but
kept its delicate oval; her eyes were large and soft, the forehead
high. In the white hands, the small feet, and the slight figure,
clearly defined by the black dress, could be read refinement and
delicate nurture.

Often Puccoon thought, “Where did this strange `Lady of the
Snow' come from? Who is she?” But he never asked her, and
it was the lady who one morning said, in her low, sad voice, which
had a flute-like tone,

“My kind, good friend, you have not asked me a single question
since you saved my life. I ought to tell you my sorrowful story—
how I came to be dying in the snow. I know that; but you must
not think hard of me if I do not tell you anything about myself at
present.”

Puccoon burst forth: He didn't want to pry into a lady's matters.
She was welcome!—welcome!

“You feel thus and speak thus,” said the poor woman, “because
you are a true and brave man, and have saved my life and pity
me! I can never thank you enough! and some day you shall
know all about me. My life has been a strange one. May I stay
here without saying more now? I will help Fanny, and teach her
too, for I am beginning to love her dearly. I do not wish any one
to know that I am here. I will tell you why some day.”

Puccoon replied that she might stay until her hair was gray; she
would be welcome. And replying, with a sorrowful smile, that it
was growing gray already, though she was only twenty-eight, the
poor Lady of the Snow went quietly to help Fanny in her simple
housekeeping.

Thus the relations between these humble people and the unknown
had been established without trouble on a comprehensible
footing. She would stay and help Fanny, and teach her, and see
nobody. She proceeded to perform her part with sedulous good
faith. The child had received only the common rudiments of an
education. The Lady of the Show now began with her where she
had left off, and taught her day by day. The instruction was entirely
oral. In this rude cabin of the hills began what we now style
a course of lectures. With Fanny seated on a stool at her feet,
clasping her little hands across the lady's lap, and looking up into
her face with eyes kindling and full of interest, the teacher instilled
into her pupil's mind the parts of the world's history, a clear
and simple outline of geography, the theory of rain, of the tides, of
gravity, and passed to astronomy, which she illustrated by pointing
out the constellations, particularly the pointers of the Great Dipper,
indicating the unchangeable star of the mariner, by which he
traversed the pathless ocean, going from clime to clime. And all
this new world of wonder was unfolded simply, in short words,
without the employment of a single term which Fanny did not
understand. Day by day the instruction went on; hour by hour
the Lady of the Snow found her pupil's mind opening, expanding,
growing. Her lessons grew longer, fuller, and more detailed, and
with all was mingled an unceasing undertone of moral and religious
comment. Fanny was reminded incessantly that, behind all these
wonders—the sequence of the season, the revolution of the planets,
the harmonious movement of the countless systems of the skies—
was the immutable and Eternal Spirit—God, the all-powerful, the
all-merciful, the Creator and Preserver of mankind, who had sent
his own Divine Son into the world to save all who loved and trusted
in Him. The child had been taught to read, and never passed a

day without reading her Bible and praying; but the religious
lessons now instilled into her mind were so earnestly and so
tenderly uttered that she felt her heart glow as she listened.

This was the manner in which the unknown woman and the
child passed their hours in the rude cabin. It was not strange that
they grew to love each other. Fanny had found a person of her
own sex—gentle, refined, sympathetic,—to look up to and love,
and the lonely woman seemed to have found even more. Her
hungry heart clung to the child. Each hour her affections for
Fanny seemed to grow and strengthen. At last the time came
when she seemed unable to bear the girl out of her sight, and she
would follow her with her sad eyes, in which a new-found joy
began to shine, as she moved to and fro, smiling or singing with
the light heart of girlhood.

Once Fanny waked late at night, and opened her eyes. The
Lady of the Snow had risen, and was bending over her with eyes
full of the deepest tenderness. Fanny still felt upon her forehead
the light impression of her lips.

“Something woke me,” said her friend, “and you looked, as the
moonlight fell upon your face, dear, so like—so like—”

The pale face flushed, and some tears came to her eyes.

“I had a child of my own once,” she faltered. “She is dead
now. She was like you.”

Fanny clasped her arms around the neck of her friend.

“You have another child now!” she said, smiling tenderly.

Thereupon the poor lady sank down on her knees, caught Fanny
to her heart, and sobbed out:

“She would have been—if she had lived—just your age!”

Such had been the events—slight and humble, but important for
Fanny's development in mind and heart—which had followed the
rescue of the unknown by Puccoon.

Under the teaching of the Lady of the Snow, Fanny had in one
month grown to be almost a woman; and it was during these lessons
that, more than once, St. Leger had made his appearance, abruptly
interrupting them, and forcing the unknown to retire quickly into
Fanny's little room. Upon such occasions the lady exhibited great
confusion, and from the manner in which she looked at the girl,
seemed to be afraid that this singular avoidance of the visitor
would excite disagreeable suspicions. But Fanny was too simple
and loyal to feel any doubt, or care to pry into her friend's secret.
She accepted with child-like trust the statement that the lady
wished to see no one, and remain at the cabin in entire privacy;
and having the conviction that there must be some good reason for
her wish, would never even look her curiosity.