She received in silence the feed basket he held out to her, and watched him as he kneeled, busily piling up the last of the fagots.
"I hope you haven't cut any more of that green oak; your father couldn't keep warm."
"This is hickory, dead hickory, with some seasoned oak. Father'll have to take his coat off and you'll have to get a fan."
There was a moment of silence.
"Supper's over," she said simply.
She held in one hand a partly eaten biscuit.
"I'll be in soon now. I've nothing to do but kindle my fire."
After another short interval she asked:
"Is it going, to snow?"
"It's going to do something."