The rain came down faster and stronger, invading the kitchen, and the mists, as they swept past the window, hid the larch-trees, but still through the noise of the falling water their louder murmuring was heard. The dog came in, shook himself and, whining, lay down near the door. The room was darkened, but the fire glowed the more brightly, and Clara put candles on the table.
"Are you warm enough?" she asked of Edward. "Jim can't sit in a room with the door shut, but we can close the window."
"No, no, please don't. We mustn't shut out these sounds."
Across the candlelight Alexander sharply eyed the man who uttered his own thoughts. Books of poetry and a love of the wind—these were good things to have, but love of the wind was best, and a greater bond than a whole library. He liked this man, he decided, and he would be sorry when he went away.
When the meal was over, and Edward Webb was sitting again in the red-cushioned chair, while Clara washed the tea-things and her husband fetched more coal for the fire, Alexander approached, and gave him a furtive touch on the shoulder.
"Here's the book," he said, "and thank you."
"You've read it all?"
"Twice."
"What's your other name?"
"Rutherford, we're called."