Witham flung two bundles of straw down beside the stove, and stood looking at her gravely. “Yes,” he said. “I want you to sit down and let me wrap this sleigh robe about you.”
The girl submitted, and did not shrink from his touch visibly when he drew the fur robe about her shoulders and packed the end of it round her feet. Still, there was a faint warmth in her face, and she was grateful for his unconcernedness.
“Fate or fortune has placed me in charge of you until to-morrow, and if the position is distasteful to you it is not my fault,” he said. “Still, I feel the responsibility, and it would be a little less difficult if you could accept the fact tacitly.”
Maud Barrington would not have shivered if she could have avoided it, but the cold was too great for her, and she did not know whether she was vexed or pleased at the gleam of compassion in the man’s grey eyes. It was more eloquent than anything of the kind she had ever seen, but it had gone and he was only quietly deferent when she glanced at him again.
“I will endeavour to be good,” she said, and then flushed with annoyance at the adjective. Half-dazed by the cold as she was, she could not think of a more suitable one. Witham, however, retained his gravity.
“Now, Macdonald gave you no supper, and he has dinner at noon,” he said. “I brought some eatables along, and you must make the best meal you can.”
He opened a packet, and laid it, with a little silver flask, upon her knee.
“I cannot eat all this—and it is raw spirit,” said Maud Barrington.
Witham laughed. “Are you not forgetting your promise? Still, we will melt a little snow into the cup.”
An icy gust swept in when he opened the door, and it was only by a strenuous effort he closed it again, while, when he came back panting with the top of the flask a little colour crept into Maud Barrington’s face. “I am sorry,” she said. “That at least is your due.”