Then he drew up by the stile leading into the Brooks.
Ruth descended swiftly, and her babe lying like a snowdrift in her arms, disappeared in the darkness through the stile.
Alf waited beside his car, watching the river like a snake crawling and curling away in gleams of sudden silver under stark trees into the night.
A few minutes later the bulk of a big woman in a white apron appeared at the stile.
"Could you take the box in?" said a gentle voice. "Dad's crippled."
Alf swaggered.
"Very well. This once. To oblige."
The job accomplished, he looked round the little plain kitchen with a proprietary air.
"Nice little place," he said.
"Would you take a cup of tea?" asked Mrs. Boam.