Gretel. And I'll cut it. [Both clatter to the table, where Gretel cuts a piece of bread, and fastening it on a stick gives it to Hans, who seats himself on a stool before the fire. Gretel stands beside him. Friedel appears at the window and leans his face against it, watching.]
Gretel. Oh, Hans, be careful, be careful, you're burning it!
Hans. No, I'm not, but I'm toasting my face.
Gretel. Let me hold it awhile. [They change places. Hans stands with hands on hips and feet apart watching her. The Mother sees Friedel and rises, beckoning to him. Friedel leaves the window, and goes to the door, where he taps softly.]
Gretel. Oh, Hans! He's come! He's come! [Gretel drops fork and both fly to the door, throwing it wide open, and standing back. An instant's pause, then Friedel looks from one to the other and stretches out his hands.]
Gretel [shyly taking his hand]. We—we—we were waiting for you. Come in.
Hans. We're glad you've come.
Gretel. Mother. Mother, his hands are like ice. [Leads him to the fire. Hans shuts the door and comes to watch. The Mother comes forward.]
Mother. Sit here, little one, and let me warm the poor cold hands. [Seats Friedel on a stool close to the fire, and bending over him chafes his hands. Hans and Gretel draw away, casting furtive glances at him.]