"Why doesn't Mansie come?" his mother asks, looking at me.
"Oh, he can't shut the hen-house doors, for the snow. He 'll be here in a moment."
The meal goes on.
"Will you go out and see what is the matter with the child?" she asks, the look of anxiety changing to one of alarm on her face.
As I am rising there is a racket in the cellar and the child soon comes blinking into the lighted dining-room, his hair dusty with snow, his cheeks blazing, his eyes afire. He slips into his place with just a hint of apology about him and reaches for his cup of fresh, warm milk.
He is twelve years old.
"What does this mean, Mansie?" she says.
"Nothing."
"You are late for dinner. And who knows what had happened to you out there in the trees a night like this. What were you doing?"
"Shutting up the chickens."