"Sakes alive! Elmiry, how you talk! I'm a-goin' to take you home and we might as well start. Come."
He slipped her arm through his and turned down the street.
Elmiry felt a burning blush on her cold cheeks, for it had been years, more than she cared to remember, since any one had taken her home.
As they went on, Mr. Weeks did the talking and Elmiry endeavoured to collect her scattered senses. There was something strangely sweet in the feeling that she had a protector, and she wondered dimly how she had ever had the courage to take the trip alone. When they reached her door, she turned to bid him good-night, but he seemed to take no notice of it.
"I guess I'll go in an' set a spell," he remarked. "I'm quite chill." Elmiry had closed the door of the kitchen and turned up the light which was burning dimly before she remembered she had no fire. Mr. Weeks opened the stove door and found the interior dark and cold. Then he looked behind the stove, but there was neither wood nor coal and the floor was spotlessly clean.
"Why, Elmiry," he said, "I'll go right out and get you an armful of wood. It's been stormin' so you've got out. I'll bring in a lot of it."
"No, no," she cried. "Please don't! It's too late for a fire to-night and in the mornin' it'll be clear! Don't go!"
In her tone there was something more than polite anxiety to save him the effort, and he changed the subject. They talked commonplaces until he felt the cold in spite of his warm clothing. She still wore her shawl and looked pitifully thin and weak.
"Ain't you cold?" he asked.
"No," replied Elmiry with great dignity. "I'm warm-blooded an' most people keep their houses too hot. It ain't healthy."