Hawtrey bought a pair, and the storekeeper took a fur cap out of another box.
“Now,” he said, “this is just the thing she’d like to go with the mittens. There’s style about that cap; feel the gloss of it.”
Hawtrey bought the cap, and smiled as he swung himself up into his wagon. Gloves are not much use in the prairie frost, and mittens, which are not divided into fingerstalls, will within limits fit almost anybody. This, he felt, was fortunate, for he was not quite sure that he meant to give them to Agatha.
It was bitterly cold, and the pace the team made was slow, for the snow was loose and too thin for a sled of any kind. Night had closed down and Hawtrey was suffering from the cold, when at last a birch bluff rose out of the waste in front of him. It cut black against the cold blueness of the sky and the spectral gleam of snow, but when he had driven a little further a stream of ruddy orange light appeared in the midst of it. A few minutes later he pulled his team up in front of a little log-built house, and getting down with difficulty saw the door open as he approached it. Sally stood in the entrance silhouetted against a blaze of cheerful light.
“Oh!” she cried. “Gregory!”
Hawtrey recognized the thrill in her voice, and took both her hands, as he had once been in the habit of doing.
“Will you let me in?” he asked.
The girl laughed in a strained fashion. She had been a little startled, and was not quite sure yet as to how she should receive him; but Hawtrey drew her in.
“The old folks are out,” she said. “They’ve gone over to Elliot’s for supper. He’s bringing us a package.”
Hawtrey, who explained that he had the parcel, let her hands go, and sat down somewhat limply. He had come suddenly out of the bitter frost into the little, brightly-lighted, stove-warmed room. The comfort and cheeriness of it appealed to him.