Her heart swung violently between suspicion and compassion.
"I am alone in the house," she said. "My husband is away, and he made me promise not to let any one in on any pretence whatever during his absence."
"Then I shall die on your doorstep," said the voice. "I can't drag myself any farther."
There was another silence.
"It is beginning to snow," he said.
"I know," she said, and he heard the trouble in her voice.
"Open the door and look at me," he said, "and see if I can do you any harm."
She opened the door, and stood on the threshold, barring the way. He was leaning against the doorpost with his head against it, as she had often seen her husband lean when he was talking to her on a summer evening. Something in his attitude, so like her husband's, touched her strangely. Supposing he were in need, and pleaded for help in vain!
The man turned his face towards her. It was sunk and hollow, ravaged with pain, an evil-looking face. His right arm was in a sling under his tattered military cloak. He seemed to have made his final effort, and now stood staring dumbly at her.
"My husband will never forgive me," she said, with a sort of sob.