She ran to the window. When she hastily dragged the curtain back she saw that the glass was spread with a fine cloth of silver. The casement was fast with frost; it took a determined movement of her wrist to throw it back. When she put her head stealthily out into the night, the cold dashed against her with the sting of a blow. There had not been so cold a night that winter. The snow fell in solid steady flakes. It was a typical winter’s night; it was quite theatrical in its completeness. She might have been looking at the drop-scene of a domestic drama. Snow, intense cold, slow-tongued, heavy-footed rustics--everything was ripe for a crisis; but there was to be no crisis in her life, no more drama. She was in harbor. Jethro saw her before she spoke. “Go back!” he said peremptorily. “Go back to the fire!” Those were the words she had used to Gainah. “Go back!” he repeated. She couldn’t see his face; she could see nothing distinctly. The men were in a circle, as if they covered something. But she didn’t want to see. The strange ring in his voice was enough. She shut the window, caught a rug from the cozy corner, and went through the warm, well-lighted corridor out of doors. * * * * * They were going very slowly, very cautiously, the group of farm men, headed by Jethro, toward the barn. She could see them--the bent shoulders, the rough clothes, the shambling, swinging steps and loose swing of the body. They were all familiar, these men. She knew them by name--knew how many shillings a week each had, and of how many children each was the father. At that moment she didn’t seem to know them at all. They were instinct with mystery--mystery flavored with dread. What were they carrying? She could see now, as she gained on them silently in her thin slippers, that they guardedly carried a thing--a long, shrouded bundle. It was shapeless; yet, somehow, it cried out of life beneath the roughly piled coverings. It was nothing agricultural that they were carrying toward the barn so carefully. She heard them speak, heard Daborn say in his cheery voice and deferential way: “’Course, sir, it aint as _I_ thinks, it’s as _you_ thinks. But _I_ should jus’ lay ’un in the barn.” Lay what in the barn? A formless fear quickened her feet. She was very close, none of them yet suspected her presence--the heavy snow now extinguished all sound of feet. They had covered the shrouded thing with sacks--wet sacks that were already stiffening with frost. She crept behind them in the shadow of the newly-planted shrubs. She followed to the barn--the great barn, full of cobwebs, scored by huge beams. Its new roof of corrugated iron, covering the heavy thatch, gleamed like a strange, new precious metal. They stopped to throw open the great door. How cold she was! And yet how her heart under the sofa-rug blazed and beat--she couldn’t have told why.