Mrs. Winnie had shut the snow and the wind out, drawn her man’s chair forward, and was running and rummaging for pillows, wraps, and blankets. Son William put his head in, and was sent packing with the flick of a flannel across his cheek, much amazed and not a little delighted. Mrs. Winnie wellnigh took Barbara out of John Gore’s arms, as though this was a woman’s affair, and not a matter for a man to meddle with. The wood fire had roared up to a great red mound, and was flinging out such a heat that the very air seemed a-simmer. Mrs. Winnie had Barbara propped up before it, with her head on a pillow and her bosom open to the fire. “You will find a brick, sir, holding the pantry door open. Put it in the fire to heat.” John Gore did as she bade him, while she reached for the chain with an iron crook and slung the kettle on it. “There be the tongs, sir. I’ll wrap the thing in a bit of flannel and put it to the child’s feet. Poor, dear young thing—lady, I mean, sir. Mercy o’ me, her shoes are wet and almost froze!” She knelt down and stripped off the shoes and stockings, and began chafing the little feet, admiring them in her blunt, frank way, and calling them the feet of a lady of quality. She had noticed the marks on Barbara’s neck, and John Gore, seeing her eyes fixed there, nodded grimly and put a hand to his throat. His eyes held Mrs. Winnie’s, and she understood the need for silence. “Where be that brick, sir?” John Gore brought it out with the tongs, and Chris Jennifer’s wife patted it into a piece of flannel and set Barbara’s feet upon it with a smile of satisfaction. “Now for some hot toddy, sir.” And she went away to mix it. John Gore bent over Barbara and touched her cheek, for a faint color was creeping back, and he felt that even Mrs. Winnie might be kissed at such a moment. But being a quiet man, he went out to see to his horse, hardly noticing that his own feet were still like frozen clay and that his arms were stiff from carrying his love. There was a brave breakfast cooking, and the fire was a red, shimmering slope of wood ash when Mr. Jennifer came stumping down the stairs to pause and stare in astonishment at Barbara as he opened the stairway door. She was lying back in the chair with her eyes open, but with no real soul in them as yet, her hands hanging over the chair-rail, her black hair bathing her face. Mr. Jennifer came in softly and discreetly, and stood about three yards from her, fingering the side seam of his breeches. Then he made a bob and waited, and then a second bob, with a stolid, persistent desire to be proper in the matter of politeness. But though Barbara hardly had sight or hearing for anything as yet, Mr. Jennifer stood stolidly to his convictions, and scraped his feet to make the lady look at him.