To their surprise and delight, however, they met Mr. Morton coming towards them a minute later. He had recovered consciousness, and finding himself alone on a strange sleigh, wrapped in rugs, whilst its two horses stood quite still, stupefied now with fatigue and cold, he arose and made the best of his way along the only semblance of a path visible.
"Where am I? What has happened?" were his first questions.
The girl looked up into his face and smiled. "'Pears like I have seen you before," she said. "But come in. Don't talk now. Come straight in and sit down. We'll have a fire in no time, and some hot water for your poor foot." She led the way into the house as she spoke.
A few articles of furniture, too poor or too heavy to be worth carrying away, had been left in the room with the hole in the floor. The girl dragged forward an ancient arm-chair of the most elementary workmanship and begged Mr. Morton to sit down in it, near a strong table supported on what looked like tree-trunks instead of legs.
"Now, my boy," she said to Cyril, "let's make a fire. There'll be wood in that chimney-corner, I'll be bound. Here's a match. Oh, and here's some paper!" She pulled the latter articles out of a huge pocket under her furs. "Can you make a fire, boy?"
"Yes, I can," he replied quickly. "I've often done it at the saw-mill."
"His name is Cyril Morton," interposed his father. "I should like to know yours," he added to the girl.
"Mine's Cynthy—Cynthy Wood," she said, taking an old kettle she had found to a running spring in the kitchen. "I'll rinse this old thing out, then the water will be sweeter," she said cheerily.
"I ought to thank you," began Mr. Morton.
"Don't now. Don't thank me," she said. "I've been repaid a thousandfold for coming here."