'Yes, Winnie,' I replied; 'I've been waiting for you.'
'Been waiting for poor Winnie?' she said, her eyes sparkling anew with pleasure; and she sat down close by my side, gazing hungrily at the food—her hands resting on her lap.
I laid my hand upon one of hers; it was so damp and cold that it made me shudder.
'Why, Winifred,' I said, 'how cold you are!' 'The hills are so cold!' said she, 'so cold when the stars go out, and the red streaks begin to come.'
'May I warm your hands in mine, Winnie?' I said, longing to clasp the dear fingers, but trembling lest anything I might say or do should bring about a repetition of last night's catastrophe.
'Will you, Prince?' said she. 'How very, very kind!' and in a moment the hand was between mine.
Remembering that it was through looking into my eyes that she recognised me in the cottage, I now avoided looking straight into hers. All this time she kept gazing wistfully at the food spread out on the ground.
'Are you hungry, Winifred?' I said.
'Oh yes; so hungry!' said she, shaking her head in a sad meditative way. 'Poor Winifred is so hungry and cold and lonely!'
'Will you breakfast with the Prince of the Mist, Winifred?'