"It's her, it's Katy Allen," she whispered.
The old man slipped out of bed and hurried on his clothes. She, good soul, followed him, groping for her dress in the dark, but another faint knock on the glass, and a mournful voice crying, "Wont you let me in? I'm freezing! I'm freezing," sent her to the window in nothing but her long night gown and cap, with its double borders shading a very pale and startled face.
Mrs. Thrasher lifted the sash and looked out. A dark figure sat crouching on the snow where it had just fallen after losing its hold on the window sill.
"Katharine, Katharine Allen, is it you?"
The figure struggled to its feet, and clinging to the window-frame with one hand, put the other through the opening, where it touched Mrs. Thrasher on the bosom. A lump of snow could not have chilled her more completely, but nothing cold had power to reach that kind heart. She lifted her plump little hands and folded the trembling fingers to her bosom tenderly as if some stray bird had fluttered there. Then the sharp wind swept over them both, and dropping the hand with a caress, the woman said, kindly:
"Go round to the door, Katharine. Father is unbolting it now."
Katharine turned away. Mrs. Thrasher closed the window, and hurrying on a garment or two, went into the next room, where the embers of a noble hickory wood fire lay smouldering under a bed of ashes. While she was raking out the fire Mr. Thrasher came in, treading softly in his stocking feet, and with the suspenders he had forgotten to button, trailing to the floor behind him. From the darkness beyond came Katharine Allen; her hood was pushed back, and sparkles of ice shone in her hair as the ruddy light from two brands thrown hastily together flashed over her. She had been crying, but the tears had frozen to pearls on her cheeks, and filled her eyelashes with delicate frostiness.
She entered the room and sat down in Mrs. Thrasher's chair, looking wistfully at the old woman, and begging pardon with her eyes as she touched the blue and red patchwork cushion, which, in those days, was sacred to the mistress of a New England home.
"I am very cold," she said, with a wan smile; "it chilled me through standing by the gate so long."
"Poor child," said Mrs. Thrasher, gathering the stray brands together with a pair of heavy tongs. "Father, just hand in a stick or two of wood from the entry way. There, now, set up close to the andirons. Never mind us, we're not a-cold."