She heard him repeating it in a childish sing-song--"Tell him I'm busy and can't come; tell him I'm busy and can't come"-- as he went out of the yard, slanting his old body before the south wind.

The wind blew from the south that day in great gusts as warm as summer; the air was full of the sounds of running water, of sweet, interrupted tinkles and sudden gurgles and steady outpourings as from a thousand pitchers.
The snow was going fast; here and there were bare patches that showed a green shimmer across the wind.

Sometimes spring comes with a rush to New England on the 1st of April.
That afternoon Madelon went to meeting and sang again, and when she got home Margaret Bean was waiting for her, sitting, a motionless, swaddled figure, beside a window.

The Hautvilles never locked their doors while away from home, and she had walked in and waited at her ease until Madelon should return.
Madelon came in alone; her father, Abner, and Eugene had stopped in the barn to look after the roan, who had gone somewhat lame in one foot, and Louis and Richard had lagged.

Margaret Bean stood up when Madelon entered.
"You'd better come over," said she.
"Didn't I tell your husband I couldn't ?" returned Madelon, harshly.
"You'd better, I guess." "I've got my father's and brothers' supper to get, and other things to see to.