"I've got it."
Tenney, not answering even by a sign, went on over the rise and disappeared below. Then Raven, after lingering a little to make sure he did not reappear, turned up the slope and into the path at the left and so came again to the hut. He unlocked the door and went in. She was sitting by the fire and the child was on the floor, staring rather vacuously at his little fingers, as if they interested him, but not much. The woman was looking at the child, but only in a mechanical sort of way, as if it were her job to look and she did it without intention even when the child was safe. But she was also watching the door, waiting for him; it was in an agony of expectation, and her eyes questioned him the instant he stepped in.
"Warm enough?" he inquired, as incidentally, he hoped, as if it were not unusual to find her here. "Let me throw on a log."
He did throw on two and the fire answered. The solemn child, who proved, at closer view, to have an unusual beauty of pink cheeks, blue eyes, and reddish hair, did not intermit his serious gaze at his fingers. When Raven had put on the logs and dusted himself off, he found himself at a loss. How should he begin? Was Tenney, with his catamount yells and his axe, to be ignored altogether, or should he reassure her by telling her the man had gone? But she herself began.
"I suppose," she said, in the eloquent low voice that seemed to make the smallest word significant, "you think it's funny."
Raven knew what sense the word was meant to convey.
"No," he said, "not in the least. It's pretty bad for you, though," he added gravely, on second thought that he might.
She made a little gesture with her hand. It was a beautifully formed hand, but reddened with work. The gesture was as if she threw something away.
"He won't hurt me," she said.
"No," Raven returned, "I should hope not."