It had, he thought, grown dark with amazing rapidity.  He could now see a feeble light at the Gilkans, ahead and on the right.  At the same moment a brighter, flickering radiance fell upon the road, the thick foliage of the trees.  The blast was gathering at Shadrach Furnace.  A clear, almost smokeless flame rose from the stack against the night-blue sky.  It illuminated the rectangular, stone structure of the coal-house on the hill, and showed the wet and blackened roof of the casting shed below.  The flame dwindled and then mounted, hanging like a fabulous oriflamme on a stillness in which Howat Penny could hear the blast forced through the Furnace by the great leather bellows.

He turned in, over the littered ground before the Gilkan house.  Fanny was standing in the doorway, her straight, vigorous body sharp against the glow inside.  “Here’s Mr. Howat Penny,” she called over her shoulder.  “Is everything off the table?  There’s not much,” she turned to him, “but the end of the pork barrel.”  A meagre fire was burning in the large, untidy hearth; battered tin ovens had been drawn aside, and a pair of wood-soled shoes were drying.  The rough slab of the table, pushed back against a long seat made of a partly hewed and pegged log, was empty but for some dull scarred pewter and scraps of salt meat.  On the narrow stair that led above, a small, touselled form was sleeping—­one of the cast boys at the Furnace.

A thin, peering woman in a hickory-dyed wool dress moved forward obsequiously.  “Mr. Penny!” she echoed the girl’s announcement; “and here I haven’t got a thing fit for you.  Thomas Gilkan has been too busy to get out, and Fanny she’ll fetch nothing unless the mood’s on her.  If I only had a fish I could turn over.”  She brushed the end of the table with a frayed sleeve.  “You might just take a seat, and I’ll look around.”

Fanny Gilkan listened to her mother with a comprehending smile.  Fanny’s face was gaunt, but her grey eyes were wide and compelling, her mouth was firm and bright; and her hair, her father often said, resembled the fire at the top of Shadrach.  Howat knew that she was as impersonal, as essentially unstirred, as himself; but he had a clear doubt of Mrs. Gilkan.  The latter was too anxious to welcome him to their unpretending home; she obviously moved to throw Fanny and himself together, and to disparage such suits as honest Dan Hesa’s.  He wondered if the older woman thought he might marry her daughter.  And wondering he came to the conclusion that the other thing would please the mother almost as well.  She had given him to understand that at Fanny’s age she would know how to please any Mr. Howat Penny that chance fortune might bring her.

That some such worldly advice had been poured into Fanny’s ears he could not doubt; and he admired the girl’s obvious scorn of such wiles and surrenders.  She sat frankly beside him now, as he finished a wretched supper, and asked about the country in regions to which she had not penetrated.  “It’s a three days’ trip,” he finished a recital of an excursion of his own.