The fire was burning merrily.  All was in order, the beds made and pushed back against the wall, the hearth swept, and some clusters of bright red berries arranged above the fireplace.  But where were Ivra and Helma?—­Ivra had called her mother “Helma” last night, and so it was that Eric already called her and thought of her.  There was not the tiniest sign of them.

Oh, but yes.  There on the floor near the hearth lay a little brown sandal, one of its strings pulled out and making a curlycue on the floor.  That must belong to Ivra.  The fire, the red berries, and the little, worn sandal, seemed to be wishing Eric a good morning and a happy day.  There was plenty of mush in the pot swinging over the fire, and on the table drawn up to it, a wooden spoon, a bowl, and a jug of rich cream.  So they had not forgotten him.  They had only let him sleep as long as he would.  They must have stolen about like mice, getting breakfast, clearing up, and tidying the room; and then closed the door very softly behind them when they went out.

And wonder of wonders!  After yesterday’s Indian Summer, outside it was a wild winter day.  Gusts of snow were hurling against all the windows of the house, and blowing a fine spray under the door.  Eric with his face against a windowpane could see only as far as the evergreen hedge because the trees beyond were wreathed in whirling snowclouds.  The dead flowers in the garden were hidden under the blowing snow.  The little straight walk up to the door was lost in it, and the footprints Ivra and Helma must have made when they went away were hidden too.

Something red blew against the hedge.  For a minute Eric thought it was a big bird.  But it found the opening and came through, and then he saw it was a little old woman.  She came briskly up to the house, a red cape blowing about her, sometimes right up over her head, for because of the jug she was carrying she could not hold it down.  She walked in without stopping to knock and was as surprised to see Eric there as he was to see her.  But she got over it at once.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully, going across the room, whisking a pitcher out of the cupboard and emptying her jug of milk into it.  “This is the milk for them, and it’s as much as ever that I got here with it.  The wind is in a fine mood-pushed me here and there all the way through the wood, and tried to steal my cape from me, say nothing of Helma’s milk!  Perhaps some of the Wind Creatures wanted them, or it might be old Tree Man himself, looking for a winter cape for his daughter.  But I said, ’No, no.  The milk is for Helma and little Ivra!  I take it to them every morning and I’ll take it this morning whether or no, so pull all you like—­cape or milk you’ll not get.  The cape has a good clasp, and I’ve a good hold of the jug.  Pull away!”

Here the old woman—­the pitcher put away, and the cupboard door closed—­dropped down on the settle and waited for Eric to speak.  She was a jolly little old woman, one could see at a glance.  Her face was the color of a good red apple, and just as round and shiny.  Her eyes were beady black, bright and quick, and surrounded by a hundred finest wrinkles, that all the smiles of her life had made.  Her mouth was pursed up like a button, out of which her words came shooting, quick and bright and merry.