Strange, strange creature to choose to live such a hard life! The only luxury, the only sign of pleasure, was a small transistor radio and a pile of old Western magazines neatly stacked by the bed. These, and the enamel coffee pot beside the stove, and the frying pan hanging on a nail behind it meant Pete’s winter life. The greater part of it must be spent simply keeping alive—getting wood chopped, keeping the fire going. Cornelius would be eager to hear all about this adventure. But she had determined to get up to see Jane Tuttle before another snow and while the road was still passable. It had been an indulgence to see Eben and not push on up the steep hill the other day.

Now, in deep winter, Jane’s little house looked even more isolated than in summer. Without the telephone, no one could live here, surely not two women. But of course the road agent, the mailman, and all of them kept an eye on Jane. The village did not forget its own.

She could see Hannah peering out the kitchen window as she turned the car round ready to go back. This sort of maneuver was hard on the knee, but she managed it this time without mishap.

Hannah opened the door, her finger to her lips.

“Miss Tuttle’s asleep,” she whispered. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Mrs. Chapman. I’ll wake her in a moment. She’ll be so happy to see you—was speaking of you only this morning, worrying about how you were making out without help.”

“Ellen comes in twice a week. Nick is there every day. We are doing splendidly!”

Then she took a real look at Hannah’s red, ugly, worn face. It was clear that she had been crying.

“How is Jane?”

This was answered by a stifled sob and by Hannah wiping her eyes on a kitchen towel.

“She won’t last the winter, Mrs. Chapman. She’s as weak as a kitten.”

“Well, she’s ninety, Hannah. Perhaps she’s ready to go. Sometimes we must realize that, I guess. She’s had a good long life.” Christina blamed herself for the false cheer. “You must get pretty worn out these days.”

“I don’t mind the work,” Hannah said. “I get a nap in the afternoon when she does—dozes off these days. I mind that Miss Tuttle isn’t herself—too gentle for her own good—used to tell me to be quiet when I talked too much. It just ain’t natural how she never complains.”

Christina slipped out of her coat and sat down to take off her boots in the formal parlor.

“She does get up every day?”