“May God reward you,” and Mr. Winters clasped his hand warmly.  “I have been very anxious.  I did not see what was to become of her if she was on her way in this terrible storm.  How providential that you happened to be going her way.”

Mr. Monteith winced a little at this.

“You will stay with us to-night, of course,” Mr. Winters said.

“Oh, no, indeed!  Thank you!  I must get back before dark.  Will rest a few minutes, though.”

The Storm King was out in full force that day, for during those few minutes huge banks piled themselves against windows and doors, and the wind shrieked and moaned like a demon, shaking the house to its foundations.

“Now,” said Mr. Winters as his guest rose to go, “it is madness for you to think of going home tonight, and I must insist that you stay.  I am disabled just now, or I would harness old Prince and get you through.”

Here Edna came in with her pleading eyes and, “Do stay; I know it is not safe for you to go.”

Motherly Mrs. Winters entreated also.  How could he resist such urgency, especially when it exactly fitted in with what he desired above all things to do.  He yielded, and was soon comfortably established in the large old rocker by the fire.  And now he enjoyed the pleasure of a new experience.  The stereotyped fashionable house he knew all about, but this old house that looked small, and yet stretched itself out into many cosy rooms; it was quaint, it was unique, and so was the little household.  It was like stepping into a book, and that a book of poems.  What was the charm of that low-browed room he sat in?  Could it be the broad fireplace, wherein blazed and snapped a veritable back-log?  Mr. Winters had stoves to warm the house, but he insisted on keeping this fire to look at.

When they all gathered about the tea-table, his critical eye noted many little points that a less refined man would not have thought of.  The fine white table-linen, delicate old-fashioned china, a piece or two of highly polished silver, and the table not vulgarly loaded with too great variety, yet everything delicious and abundant.  Mr. and Mrs. Winters, too, though unpretending, were persons of refinement and intelligence.  He was puzzled to understand how a young girl, reared in so much seclusion, should possess such grace and culture as did Edna.  After tea, when she played and sang, his mystification increased, for the bird-like voice and delicate touch were superior to much that he heard among his city friends.  It came out in the course of conversation, however, that Edna had spent the last six years in one of the finest schools in Boston—­an inmate of her aunt’s family; and now she had come back to them to gladden the eyes of those two, who almost set her up as an idol; come back, not spoiled, taking up her daily little homely duties again with real zest.

Mr. Monteith found Mr. Winters most congenial company.  He had read extensively, and was keen in argument, throwing in a bit of poetry or a witty story, as the case required.  Edna brought her crotcheting and made herself into a picture in one corner of the fireplace, her changing, speaking face and piquant remarks lending interest to the dullest subject.