A ruined mill with dripping eaves, a grinding shudder of brakes, and the train halted. With quick interest in her eyes, the traveler alighted, but outside on the sodden village platform her interest fled panic-stricken in an overpowering surge of loneliness and dismay. Surely, surely, thought Jean Varian, a bleak enough goal for her odd caprice! Great, wind-beaten trees dripped above the village and the covered bridge; fog-ridden hills towered in the distance like ghostly gables of the valley; and at the head of the street in the old-fashioned hotel to which days before she had whimsically written for rooms, only a single unpromising light flickered dully through the wind and rain.
But the night was settling rapidly and with a careless direction to the staring baggageman, Jean Varian turned away into the muddy street and made her way to the hotel where a man in boots with a bucket in his hand was stumping heavily away from the pump to the long, low hitching sheds beyond.
It was essentially rural in its homely comfort, the Westowe House, with brightly colored cornucopias in the parlor carpet and hair-cloth parlor furniture blotched with tidies that tobogganed dizzily to the floor at a touch; but Mrs. Pryce, the proprietor's wife, was stout and ruddy and so frankly and intimately curious that Jean kept to her room for the greater part of the day that followed.
The rain continued. Outside, the stable-man tramped noisily about among the steaming horses, the pump creaked under frequent duress; Mrs. Pryce was insistently hospitable and insistently curious; and at twilight, appalled by the dreary monotony of it all, Jean restlessly set forth to explore the village. It was already dark when in her careless circuit she approached the railroad. The night train was puffing leisurely past the sheep-pen and a man was tramping toward the post-office with a mail-bag over his shoulder. Ahead with a promise of further monotony and curiosity flickered the lights of the Westowe House. Jean's footsteps lagged.
Now just behind the station, parallel with the glistening rails, lay a country lane, and down this, in the heart of the rain and dark, twinkled a single light so cheerful and inviting that Jean halted unconsciously. Vaguely she remembered having caught its elfin glimmer the night before, but now as she watched, it twinkled so irresistibly with an inferential atmosphere of warmth and cheer that the girl gathered her wet cloak about her and set off toward it in a pleasant glow of curiosity.
A smell of wet pine filled the lane, but though the way was very dark and a little lonely, Jean Varian hurried on, halting at last with a smothered sigh of envy. For here in the heart of the dripping pine-trees, lay a tiny cottage, so white and trim and cheery that even the croon of the gallant pines that brushed the roof bore in it nothing of the night's melancholy. Now the light that twinkled among the pine-needles and the rain-glisten of the night came from a lamp held through an open porch-window from within by the hand of a tiny woman with a shawl about her head, and even as Jean stared wonderingly, the watcher in the window spoke.
"Good evening!" she called brightly. "It is so very windy and wet to-night. Perhaps I can persuade you to step in and have a cup of hot tea with me!"
"But—but," stammered Jean from the rain and shadows, "I—I did not dream you could see me!"
"Why, neither I can, my dear!" briskly replied the little woman, "but many a cold and weary straggler from the night train sees my light and whenever I call there is, as a rule, an answer! And now,"—with an energetic cordiality wonderfully compelling—"if you will please come straight up the walk and open the front door, you'll find a fire and a welcome just as warm. Why, bless your tired heart," she added with a quick, birdlike turn of her muffled head that brought the light upon her face, "my kettle is singing away here like a cricket. Do hurry!"
Wonderingly, Jean obeyed. Who could withstand the irresistible warmth of the little woman's hospitality? And with the opening of the cottage door, the astonished guest left all the chill and melancholy of the winter night behind her, for here in a snugly-curtained room roared a rollicking, jovial blade of a wood-fire, waggishly throwing the reflection of his ever-busy fire-sword upon the old-fashioned walls and checkerboard carpet, the oval portraits and the snowy supper cloth, trimly decked in china blue, all the while filling the room with his boisterous crackles and chuckles of delight! And steaming madly away in spirited rivalry over an alcohol blaze, a handsome brass kettle, ludicrously fat and complacent, hummed a throaty jubilate of self-approval. Surely the splendid emperor of all kettles! thought Jean Varian, smiling, this exuberant egotist with his polished armor and his plume of steam!