Twice in the next few days Christina picked up Old Pete and Flicker on their way to the general store. He complained a lot of pain in his feet, looked dirtier than ever. But when Christina wondered aloud how he would manage all winter and in the January cold, he recited with a flourish, “‘Now the days are getting longer and the cold is getting stronger!’ Well, Ed promised me I could have a couple of big trees they just took down, back on the Long Hill Road. Maybe Nick will help me.” There was something touching about the old man’s faith that he would and could manage. “I’ve spent a good many winters here in Willard, and, come spring, I’ve come through. No one’s going to scare me out of my first trout this May!”

“I’m not trying to scare you, Pete, but do be careful, and don’t go to sleep on these cold nights without being sure the fire will last you through to morning, will you?”

“You teach your grandmother to suck eggs!” he teased.

But Christina did feel anxious. There was no electricity in the camp, just a kerosene lamp. So she rummaged around in the attic and went down next day with extra blankets and a quilt, also some old boots of John’s that he would surely not mind parting with in such a good cause. It was a scramble to get up to the shack from the road over a snowdrift. She knocked at the door, tied together with a leather strap, but there was no answer, so she pushed it open to leave the things inside. In some ways the shack was a mess, but it was clear that every piece of junk had its place: a tin tub hung on the wall; there were two pails of water standing just inside the door; Old Pete’s best suit and shirt hung on a hanger beside the bed. Christina laid the blankets and quilt on top of a crumpled old army blanket, set the boots down where Old Pete would see them, and then went quickly away. She felt as if she had intruded on the lair of a wild animal.