Lydia mopped her face and by the time Kent had the fire smothered with snow, she was standing, sad-eyed but calm except for dry sobs.  Kent picked up one of the sticks he had brought for the fire.

“Catch hold,” he said, “I’ll pull you home.”

Old Lizzie was watching for them and when they came stamping into the dining-room, they found a pitcher of steaming cocoa and a plate of bread and butter with hot gingerbread awaiting them.

“See if you can get her to eat, Kent,” said Lizzie.

“Sure, she’ll eat,” Kent answered her.  “Gimme back my hanky, Lyd!”

Lizzie gave a keen look at Lydia’s tear-stained face and turned abruptly into the kitchen.  She came back in a moment to find Lydia silently eating what Kent had set before her.

Kent ate hugely and talked without cessation.  About what, Lydia did not know, for the sleep that had been long denied her was claiming her.  She did not know that she almost buried her head in her second cup of cocoa, nor that Kent helped carry her to the couch behind the living-room base burner.

“Is she sick?  Shall I get the doctor?” he whispered as old Lizzie tucked a shawl over her.

“Sick!  No!  No!  She’s just dead for sleep.  She’s neither cried nor eat nor had a decent hour of sleep since it happened.  And now, thanks to you, she’s done all three.  You are a good boy, Kent Moulton.”

Kent looked suddenly foolish and embarrassed.  “Aw—­that’s nothing,” he muttered.  “Where’s my coat?  Maybe I’ll come out again to-morrow, if I ain’t got anything better to do.”

All the rest of the winter afternoon, Lydia slept.  The sun dipped low beyond the white hills, filling the living-room with scarlet for one breathless moment, before a blanket of twilight hid all save the red eyes of the base burner.  Amos came home at seven and he and Lizzie ate supper in silence except for the old lady’s story of Kent’s visit.

“Poor young one,” muttered Amos, looking slowly toward the quiet blond head on the faded brown cushion.  “I’m glad she’s a child and ’ll forget it soon.”

Lizzie gave Amos a curious glance.  “You don’t know Lydia, Amos,” she said.

He did not seem to hear her.  He moved his chair toward the stove, put his feet on the fender, lighted his pipe and then sat without moving until a stamping of feet and a hearty rap on the door roused him.  Lizzie let John Levine in.

“Where’s Lydia?” was Levine’s first Question.

Lizzie pointed to the couch, where, undisturbed, Lydia slept on.

“Good!” said John.  He drew his chair up beside Amos’ and the two fell into low-voiced conversation.

It must have been nine o’clock when Lydia opened her eyes to hear Amos say fretfully,

“I tell you, I went to him to-day as I’ll go to no man again.  I begged him to renew the note, but he insisted his duty to the bank wouldn’t let him.  I told him it would put you in a terrible fix, that you’d gone on the note when you couldn’t afford it.  He grinned a devil’s grin then and said, ’Amos, I know you’ve got nothing to lose in this.  If you had, for the sake of your children—­I mean Lydia, I’d hold off.  But Levine can fix it up!’”