When the minister came in there was a comfortable old coat warmed and waiting for him, and a smoking supper set out on a little table drawn up before the stove.
“Sit down, John. I am going to let you eat here in peace away from the children.” He glanced up questioningly as a roar came from the kitchen, with snarls and growls in various keys. “It’s all right. They are wild animals in a cage and I am the keeper. They are having no end of fun. You had a cold drive.”
“Bitter.”
“You need an ulster with a storm collar.” She glanced involuntarily at the barrel. “Aren’t these potatoes good, John? So mealy one hardly needs butter. Lucky thing, too! You didn’t know I skimped the family out of a pound of butter, did you? Yes, sir, it went into the candy money.” She meant it as a pleasantry, but somehow it failed, and she hurried on. “I wish there were more of the potatoes. Those boys do eat so! But never mind! After Christmas the hens will begin. Funny how hens can tell the time of the year, isn’t it?” She chattered on about anything and everything except the draft.
“This certainly is comfort,” he said at last, relaxing under the genial influence of food and warmth and companionship. “That’s a cold stretch coming out from town.”
“Didn’t you stop anywhere?”
“Yes. At Joe Henderson’s. Mary—his wife died!”
“John!”
“Yes. Died last night. I never felt so sorry for anybody in my life. They think the baby will live; and the poor fellow doesn’t know what to do with it nor where to turn.”
“Oh, John! If only our cow weren’t going dry I would——”