Glaring up at him to hide the impending tears, she almost surprised that look of grave tenderness on the rough face of the man who had known her as a child.
"She doesn't want it," said Angella Loring. "Her own child! Well, then, I'll keep it! It shan't want. I'll care for it."
"It's a wee laddie—born before its time, and nane too strong." He had a habit when unduly moved of lapsing into Gaelic, and what he muttered was unintelligible to the woman, wholly taken up with the baby in her arms. Could she have understood him she would have heard the doctor say that a woman who could mother another woman's "bairn" would be a good mother to her own.
Outside the snow was still heavily falling. Great mounds were piling up on all sides. That world of snow might have appalled the stranger, but to the farmer it meant certain moisture in the soil. A spring snowstorm was even more desirable for the land than rain, as it melted gradually into the earth. Already the sun was gleaming through the falling snowflakes, and the intense cold had abated.
"Weel, weel, I'll be off for a while, lass. There's much still to attend to."
"You can't go out in that storm," said Angella roughly. "Wait, I'll get you something to eat. Not even your Ford could plow through snow like that."
"Maybe not, and I'll not be taking the Ford."
"Well, I've no vehicle to lend you."
"I'll go afoot," said the doctor, wrapping his woolen scarf about his neck, preparatory to going out.