She knew somehow that it was Burr Gordon, and when she opened the door he stood there. He looked curiously embarrassed, but she did not notice that. His mere presence for the moment seemed to fill all her comprehension. She had no eye for shades of expression.
“Come in,” said she, all blushing and trembling before him, and yet with a certain dignity which never quite deserted her.
“Can I see you a minute?” Burr said, awkwardly.
“Come this way.”
Madelon led the way into the best room, where there was no fire. It had not been warmed all winter, except on nights when Burr had come courting her. In the midst of it the great curtained bedstead reared itself, holding its feather-bed like a drift of snow. The floor was sanded in a fine, small pattern, there were white tasselled curtains at the windows, and there was a tall chest of drawers that reached the ceiling. The room was just as Madelon's mother, who had been one of the village girls, had left it.
Madelon glanced at the hearth, where she had laid the wood symmetrically—all ready to be kindled at a moment's notice should Burr come. “I'll light the fire,” said she, in a trembling voice.
“No, I can't stop,” returned the young man. “I've got to go right up to the tavern. Look here, Madelon—”
“Well?” she murmured, trembling.
“I want to know if—look here, won't you lilt for the dancing to-night, Madelon?”
Madelon's face changed. “That's all he came for,” she thought. She turned away from him. “You'd better get Luke Corliss to fiddle,” she said, coldly.