When he had stabled the horse in the lean-to, he opened the door of the shack. A breath of warmth and three young voices rushed out to greet him. ‘Hello, Michael!’ ‘Come to supper!’ ‘We’re waiting.’
Michael entered, tracking in much mud, which didn’t really matter, for the floor was of beaten earth. He spread his hands to the fire. ‘What have you there?’ he asked, man-like.
‘Potatoes,’ said Helen, and lifted the lid to show the silky skins bursting like milkweed pods about to loose their fleece.
‘But we mustn’t eat the potatoes,’ cried Michael sharply; ‘we’ve got to save them for seed.’
‘What shall we eat, then?’ asked Helen.
‘Isn’t there any flour?’
Helen poked the meal-bag, which hung from the rafters to keep it from the rats. It was nearly empty.
Michael’s kind eyes were sombre as the family gathered at the table. ‘Is there anything we can sell?’ he asked.
‘Nothing but the goose,’ said Helen.
They looked at one another with troubled faces. If they sold the goose, what about the goslings that they hoped for in the spring?