The tiny kitchen, crammed with a table, stove, and straight chairs, bulged with life and heat. Every window was filled with potted plants. There were two cats under the stove, fast asleep, and another dog, an indoor dog apparently, under the table. He licked Christina’s hand when she sat down. It took a moment to get her bearings, to recover from the shock of dear Ma’s face. She had aged in the last year—her face now a mass of fine wrinkles, only her dark eyes as bright as ever.

“How is Mr. Chapman?” she asked. The warmth of interest flowed out at once. The Lovelands were always courteous. Going down from their hill on the daily errands—to deliver milk, to work on the roads, and Jeane, the middle daughter, to work for various elderly spinsters in the village—they gathered in the news, wove it in and out in their talk—cared. Once, when all Christina’s tulips had been broken off by cutworms, it was Mary Loveland who telephoned to say how sorry she was about it. These were real tragedies. They themselves lived fighting impossible battles—battles that never could be won in this climate. Frost came early, or raccoons ate the corn. A fox got in to the Muscovy ducks. Every harvest, every egg, it seemed sometimes, had been garnered “by luck and by Jesus,” as Old Pete put it.

So Christina reassured Ma about Cornelius and about herself.

“We’re in for a long winter, looks like. When that first snow didn’t melt, I knew we were in for it,” Ma said, rubbing her hands on her knees—worn hands, rough with hard work.

“You’re all well, though?”

“I get kind of tired in the bones, but hard work never hurt anyone.”

“Mary, I came to ask whether maybe March and Hannie could help Nick get the storm windows up. This early snow certainly took me by surprise—but Old Pete was to have come weeks ago.”

“Guess he’s not feeling too good. March gave him a lift in the truck the other day. He’s too old to live in that shack. I can’t imagine how he’ll get through this winter.”

“Where could he go?”

“He has family all over, but they don’t get on. He’s a loner—always was.” Then she smiled her rare smile—a smile of complicity, and at once Christina found again the young face she remembered, fresh and sweet as a rose. “Fact is, he’s the best of the lot. Old Pete’s honest, even if he don’t care to work.—I’ll just call March. Out in the barn, I expect.”

“Oh, I’ll go out and see him.” Christina was sweating in the intense heat and, besides, she loved the barn. Indeed the sweet smell of ammonia, milk, and manure in the midst of the frozen world was absolutely delicious.