“Mr. Calladine!” said Olver, ceasing from his laughter. He came forward and put his parcels and his lantern down on the table. Its rays illuminated the little hut. “So you were waiting for them, sitting here in the dark, were you?” he observed. “Will they come?” asked Calladine. “Oh yes, they’ll come,” replied Olver easily. “But they won’t let you stop here, you know,” he added. “No, nor me either,” he pursued, coming closer to Calladine and speaking confidentially. “They’ll put us both out into the snow, get-yourselves-home-as-best-you-can. They won’t care. They won’t notice us, scarcely. They’re in a dream. Nod to me, perhaps; give me a pat, like a dog. Good Olver; he brings our food. But do they eat it? they seem like they don’t need food.” “Have you seen them, then?” said Calladine. “Seen them? Lord bless you, yes; and seen you too, wandering round with Daisy. I was behind you, many and many a time, but you didn’t turn.” He began now to unpack his parcels, bringing out a loaf of bread, a tin of milk, some eggs, and finally some raw meat in slices. Calladine watched him in silence. He disposed of everything in a business-like manner, fetching two plates out of the cupboard, laying the table, putting ready the tea-pot and the canister. “You might well have lit the lamp for them,” he said reproachfully to Calladine. He lit the little paraffin lamp himself, and the hut was further irradiated by its yellow glow. The hut made now a patch of warmth and light among the cold, dark hills; a box of light, like a star in the blackness of space. Calladine felt the warmth creep through him, as though he were admitted to a hint of the sufficient and radiant secret of those lovers. The poverty of the shelter disappeared now, in the golden warmth of the light from within. And he felt that he, and not they, was the pauper. Olver meanwhile had set the meat to fry over the lamp. It frizzled as he turned it with a fork, and he crouched over it, humming his song. “You seem very well contented,” said Calladine. Olver looked up, having forgotten Calladine’s presence. “I am contented, because Nicholas is happy,” he replied. “Simple enough!” said Calladine. “But she is happy too,” said Olver, sitting back on his heels and staring at Calladine. “He is only a mad boy,” thought Calladine to himself. Olver sang. He sang an old song, of a girl drowned in the mill-pool because she had lost her lover. The wistful beat of the ballad came back at the end of each verse; it droned on, with mournful persistence. At last Calladine could bear its monotony no longer, and asked, “When will they come?” Olver shrugged. “Who can tell?” “Where are they?” Calladine asked. Olver shrugged again. “Who can tell?” Calladine remembered how often he had asked Clare, “Where have you been? where have you been?” He remembered that her answers had never left him any the wiser; he had never come near to what he really wanted to know.