Thus had the summer passed, the autumn too, and midwinter had come, finding Nell fully recovered from the effects of her fright, her fears dispelled, her nerves as steady as ever they had been.
It was the second winter since her arrival in Chillicothe, and she had become really attached to the place and its cheerful social life, so free from formality and restraint.
Calling at the major's one evening, Kenneth found her alone in the sitting-room, quietly knitting and thinking beside the fire.
The wide chimney was heaped high with hickory logs, and the dancing, flickering flames filled the whole room with a cheerful, ruddy light.
Nell's back was toward the door and she did not perceive his entrance, till he spoke close at her side, his pleasant "Good evening, I hope I do not intrude?" rousing her from her reverie.
"Oh no, doctor, you are always welcome in this house," she said, rising to give him her hand, and inviting him to be seated.
"I knocked," he said apologetically, "but no one seemed to hear, so I ventured to admit myself."
"Quite right," she answered, "though I do not understand how I happened to miss hearing your rap."
"Preoccupation," he remarked with a half absent smile, gazing thoughtfully into the fire as he spoke. "You are all quite well?"
"Quite, thank you. My brother and sister are out spending the evening; and the children are in bed."