Then it was, 'How you do look, old gentleman! I must really send you
up some new clothes.--Silver, how have you been able to endure such
shabby rags so long?'
'I do not know,--I never noticed; it was always just papa, you know,'
replied Silver, her blue eyes resting on the old man's clothes with a
new and perplexed attention.
But Fog bore himself cheerily. 'He is right, Silver,' he said, 'I am
shabby indeed. But when you go out into the world, you will soon
forget it.'
'Yes,' said Silver, tranquilly.
The days flew by and the ice moved out. This is the phrase that is
always used along the lakes. The ice 'moves out' of every harbor from
Ogdensburg to Duluth. You can see the great white floes drift away
into the horizon, and the question comes, Where do they go? Do they
meet out there the counter floes from the Canada side, and then do
they all join hands and sink at a given signal to the bottom?
Certainly, there is nothing melting in the mood of the raw spring
winds and clouded skies.
'What are your plans?' asked old Fog, abruptly, one morning when the
gulls had flown out to sea, and the fog came stealing up from the
south.
'For what?'
'For the marriage.
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