The judge himself opened the door.
“So here you are at last!” was his pleasant greeting. “Come in—have a cup of tea—before you go—to look at your own place. Work’s all done.”
They were all cold and tired, and very glad to accept his invitation. His housekeeper, Madam Lovemore—for the judge had never married—bustled around preparing a substantial supper instead of “tea.” She was a sociable, motherly creature, who loved to have company at any time; but the thoughts of these poor young things driving so many miles in the cold, and going to live in that old house, so touched her heart that no effort was too great, and no food too fine to be placed before them.
“Favored—” remarked the judge, as he seated his guests at the dining room table. “Best plum preserves—my housekeeper must like your looks.”
Madam Lovemore, who was just taking her accustomed place at the foot of the table, smiled indulgently at him, as one might smile at an outspoken child.
The meal lasted a long time; for the judge wanted to hear all about their summer. Once he excused himself and disappeared into the kitchen where he held a lengthy conversation with some unseen person.
“Right away!” they heard him say, as he was about to re-enter the dining room.
“We’ll go over—with you,” he said, when Jack proposed their departure, saying that they counted on staying in the house that night, living camp fashion until they had a chance to get the necessities. For an hour, René had been asleep on the horse-hair sofa, and Priscilla’s head kept nodding.
“They’re tired, poor dears,” said Madam Lovemore compassionately, as she helped Desiré put their wraps on.
When they went outside, they discovered that the world had completely changed its appearance. A thin layer of snow made the roads look like strips of white cloth; each dried weed, seed pod, and knot of grass had a spotless cap; and the outstretched arms of the firs held their light burden so tenderly that not a flake was shaken off.