There were two strange people there, or they were strange to Eric because they were so different from any people he had ever known.  One was a young woman who sat sewing cross-legged on a settle at the side of the fire-place.  About her the strangest thing was her hair.  It was not like most women’s,—­long and twisted up on her head.  It was short, and curled back above her ears and across her forehead like flower-petals.  It was the color of the candle-flames.  But her face was brown, and her neck and long hands were brown, as though she had lived a long time in the sun.  Her eyes that were lifted and scarcely watching the work in her hands, were very quiet and gray.

She was watching and talking to a little girl who was skipping back and forth between a rough tea-table set near the fire and an open cupboard-door in the wall.  She was carrying dishes to the table, and now and then stopping to stir something good-smelling which hung over the fire in a pewter pot, with a strong bent twig for a handle.

The child was strange in a very different way from her mother.  The mother, one could see, was merry in spite of her quiet eyes.  But the child was pale.  Her face was pale and little and round.  Her hair was pale, too, the color of ashes, and braided in two smooth little braids hanging half way down her back.  She moved with almost as much swiftness as the fire-shadows, and as softly too.

Both mother and daughter were dressed in rough brown smocks, with narrow green belts falling loosely,—­strange garments to Eric.  And their feet were bare.

But stranger than the house, stranger than the people in it, was the fact that the mother was talking to the little girl just as people of the same age talk to each other; and though Eric was shaking with cold and aching with hunger, he could still wonder deeply at that.

“It’s a long way ’round by the big pine,” she was saying; “but you see I am home in time for supper.  Suppose I had not come until after dark.  What would you have done, Ivra?”

The little girl stopped in her busy-ness to stand on one foot and think a second.  “Why, I’d have put the supper over the fire, lighted the candles, and run out to meet you.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t know which way to run.  I might come from any direction.”

“I’d follow the wind,” cried Ivra, lifting her serious face and rising to her tiptoes, one arm outstretched, as though she were going to follow the wind right then and there.

It was at that minute they noticed the door had blown open, and that a little boy was standing in it, looking at them.

But they neither stared nor exclaimed.  Ivra ran to him, her arms still outstretched in the flying gesture, and drew him in.  His dirty face was streaked with tears, and his legs and feet were blue with the cold.  They knew it was not question-time, but comfort-time, so the mother folded an arm about him, and Ivra skipped more rapidly than ever between the cupboard and the table.  Almost at once supper was ready, and the table set for three.  As the last thing, Ivra brought all the candles and set them in the middle of the table.  They sat down,—­Eric with his back to the fire.  It warmed him through and through, but their friendly faces warmed him more.