“Well, Mr. Ugthorpe, and what do you want?”
“Here’s a young gentlewoman without a shelter for her head, an’ Ah thowt ye would be t’ person to give it her.”
“Young gentlewoman—without shelter!” echoed the lady in slow, solemn, strident tones. “Why, how’s that?”
“I was snowed up in the train, madam, on my way to my father’s. And we are very sorry to have troubled you. Good-night.”
Very proudly the girl uttered these last words, in the high, tremulous tones that tell of tears not far off. While Barnabas stopped at the door to argue and explain, Freda was hopping back through the snow towards the lane as fast as she could, with bitter mortification in her heart, and a weary numbness creeping through her limbs.
Suddenly through the night air there rang a cry in a deep, full, man’s voice, a voice that thrilled Freda to the heart, calling to something within her, stirring her blood.
“Aunt, she’s lame! Don’t you see she’s lame?”
She heard rapid footsteps in the snow. As she turned to see who it was that was pursuing her, and at the same time raised her hand to dash away the rising tears and clear her sight, her little crutch fell. She stooped to grope in the snow, and instantly felt a pair of strong arms around her. Not Barnabas Ugthorpe’s. There was no impetuous acting upon impulse about Barnabas. And in the pressure of these unknown arms there seemed to Freda to be a kindly, protecting warmth and comfort such as she had never felt before.
“Who is it? Who are you?” she cried tremulously.
“Never mind, I’ve been sent to take care of you,” answered the voice.