He rubbed his hands and leaned back, staring at the window. The wind was rising outside and blew the snow in whirls and sheets.
“Going to be a bad night I came up from the station. If a man's going anywhere tonight, he'll be apt not to get there.”
“You ought to have taken the right hand at the fork.”
“Well, I don't know.”
She rose and took a cloak from the table. Sebastian watched her.
“I must feed the pony and shut up the chickens.”
She hesitated. A refusal seemed to have been hinted to the hinted request for hospitality. But Sebastian saw another point.
“Now, that's what I'm going to do for you.”
She looked on silently, as he passed her with assured step, not hesitating at doors, but through the kitchen to the woodshed, and there in the darkness of a pitch-black corner took down a jingling lantern and lit it. She followed him silently into the yard, that was full of drifts and wild storm, to the barn, where she listened to him shake down hay and bedding, measure oats, slap the pony's flank and chirp cheerfully. Then he plunged through a low door and she heard the bolt in the chicken shed rattle. It had grown dark outside. He came out and held the barn door, waiting for her to step out, and they stood side by side on the edge of the storm.
“How did you know the lantern was there?”