He would tell her nothing. He simply lay and glared at her, and by no means disposed to seek a quarrel with him, she made her way back to the kitchen, opened the stove door, and, lighting a piece of paper, searched the room until she found the closet where the candles were kept.
The old man lay motionless in his bed. He heard her searching, heard the dogs pattering after her, and a violent perspiration broke out upon him. Wrath sometimes gave him unwonted fluency of speech. To-night it rendered him speechless. He did not wish this beggar's brat to wait on him. Hank had not asked his permission to send her—had simply announced that she was coming. He was treated as if he were a baby—an idiot, and this was his own house. Hank had nothing to do with it. He didn't care if Hank did pay her. He had money enough of his own to hire a housekeeper. But he didn't want one. He wanted to wait on himself. He hated to have women cluttering round, and he lay, and perspired, and inwardly raged, and obtained not one wink of sleep, while 'Tilda Jane, having obtained what she wished, peacefully composed herself to rest.
First though, she calmly bade him "Good-night," told him to "holler," if he wanted anything, and, calling her dogs, went off in search of a bed for herself.
Beyond the kitchen was a front hall,—cold, dusty, and comfortless. Up-stairs were four rooms, two unfurnished, one having something the appearance of a spare room left long unoccupied, the other smelling of tobacco, exceedingly untidy, littered with old clothes, fishing rods, bats, cartridge shells, and other boyish and manly belongings. This must be Hank's room, probably it had been occupied later than the other, and the bed would not be so damp. She would sleep here, and she turned down the clothes.
"Good land!" she murmured, "I wonder how long sence those blankets has been washed?" and she turned them back again, and, going to the other room, obtained two coverlets that she spread over herself, after she lay down on the outside of the bed.
The dogs had already curled themselves up on a heap of clothes on the floor, and in a few minutes the three worn-out travellers were fast asleep.
When 'Tilda Jane lifted her head from her very shady pillow the next morning, her ears were saluted by the gentle patter of rain. The atmosphere was milder—a thaw had set in.
She sprang up, and went to the dogs, who were still snoring in their corner. "Wake up," she said, touching them with her foot. Gippie started, but something in the expression of Poacher's eloquent eyes told her that, although he had been apparently sound asleep, he knew perfectly well what was going on about him.
"Let's go and see Mr. Dillson," she exclaimed, and picking up Gippie, she ran down-stairs with Poacher at her heels.
"It ain't cold—it's just pleasant," she muttered, turning the key with difficulty in the front door, and throwing it open.