“You better come in the house and wash up,” he told her slowly, “and get warm. I guess you’re kind of wet.”
She nodded. “Yes. I’d like that. I’d like to do that.”
He perceived that she was fighting for self-control, putting down the revolt of jangling nerves.
“Come through here, ma’am,” he bade her, and led the way through the woodshed and into the kitchen. There he set his lantern on the table and brought fresh water from the pump. “I’ve been away since morning,” he explained. “The water in the tank is cold. You want to wait till I heat some up?”
She shook her head. “This will do finely.”
He went through into the bedroom and returned with a heavy porcelain bowl, which he set in the sink, removing the granite-ware wash-basin. The woman had sunk down limply in a chair beside the table. Jeff, careful not to distress her by his scrutiny, unwrapped a fresh bar of soap, brought out a clean towel. Then with half a dozen motions he threw shavings and bits of kindling into the stove, touched a match to them, laid a stick or two of hardwood atop. “That’ll warm the kitchen up pretty quick,” he told her. He understood that she wished to be alone, yet was not sure what he should do. At last he said awkwardly, “I’ll be doing the chores,” and lighted a lamp for her, then took the lantern and departed through the shed again.
When he had gone only a few steps he stopped, considered, then returned and knocked upon the door through which he had come out. She bade him enter; and when he did so he found her on her feet, unfastening the long black coat.
“You could go into the bedroom,” he said tentatively.
She shook her head, smiling gratefully. “I’m sure this is fine. But I would like a comb.”
“I’ll get my wife’s for you,” he replied; and brought it to her. Mrs. Ranney was a good housekeeper; the comb was as clean as new. “Would there be anything else?” he asked when she had thanked him for it.