“The young one” was sitting by the kitchen window. Her eyes were dilated and she looked frightened. She had her hands folded idly in her lap. That was unusual, for she was ordinarily very busy.
“You don’t like these thunder-storms, do you?” said Harry.
Oh, she didn’t mind them, she answered.
“Where’s your father?” Harry asked.
“He went off down to the village before I got up. I guess he was going to get some flour.”
“Then you’ve been all alone in this storm,” Harry said.
She did not reply.
A fire was burning in the stove, and the campers hung their wet overcoats behind it, and themselves drew chairs to the stove and sat with their feet on the hearth. On the table was a pile of unwashed dishes. From the large room next to the kitchen came the sound of dripping water. There was a great pool on the floor in one place, and two or three pans were set about to catch the streams trickling through the ceiling.
CHARCOAL KILNS