Mrs. Winnie had piled up the fire, lit the dry brushwood under it, and was kneeling to help the blaze with the bellows, when the door swung open, and John Gore walked in. He looked muddy as to the boots and breeches, and rather white about the face, like a man who has been out long in the cold, though his eyes had a quiet steadfastness that proved he had no pallor at the heart. Winnie Jennifer twisted round on her knees. “Body of me, sir, you are here at last! I’ve been kep’ awake most of the night through thinking of ye, and listening.” He smiled down at her, and when he smiled the mystery that was in him seemed to glow and to exult in a way that made Mrs. Winnie hanker after her own days of being courted. “You should not have troubled your head about me, Mrs. Jennifer.” The fire was blazing now, making a brave crackle, and John Gore looked at it as though he were cold and empty and dead tired. Mrs. Winnie was up and bustling in an instant. “Sit you down, sir. Why, bless my heart, you must be cold and damp as a dish-clout! I’ll fetch Chris down to see to your horse.” “I have seen to him myself, Mrs. Winnie.” She pushed forward the great box of a chair that was padded with horsehair and leather, and had been polished to a rare sheen by her husband’s breeches. “Just you pull off your boots, sir, and rub yourself dry. I’ll have something hot in ten minutes, and a dish of bacon and some eggs.” She was bustling with curiosity as well as with good-will, for there was something in the man’s manner that told of mystery and of strange things accomplished, and perhaps of looking deep into other eyes. He sat down obediently before the fire, and, pulling off his boots, spread himself to the blaze. Overhead they could hear the stumping of Chris Jennifer’s feet as he tumbled into his clothes with decent circumlocutions. Mrs. Winnie came to hang the kettle on the chain, and while she was bending forward with the firelight on her face John Gore sat forward in his chair and laid a hand upon her shoulder. “I am giving you a great deal of trouble, Mrs. Jennifer,” he said. “Dear life, no, sir.” “Can I ask you to do something more for me?” She knelt and looked around at him, her honest, comely face perfectly trustful. “To be sure, sir.” “Then I must make my terms with you.” “You can talk of them, sir, though I may not be for listening to them when you have told me what you wish.” John Gore sat back in the chair again, his eyes on the fire. “Mrs. Jennifer, I want some one whom I can trust. I want to bring her to you here, away from people who wish her out of the world.” Mrs. Winnie took up the poker and made a thrust or two at the fire. “It’s good of you, sir, to give me the honor—” “There shall be no danger to you or yours, I can promise that.” “There, sir, I was not thinking of any such thing! We are only farming folk, and the lady may have prettier notions than—” He bent forward suddenly and looked into her face.