In spite of the way he looked, Ellen sensed that all was well with Nick. And that was all that mattered, though he was a pretty horrifying sight for her to take in without being warned. He’s got into a fight, she thought, but somehow it has made him feel better. It was Ellen’s way to make mountains out of molehills about the small misadventures of daily life, and to complain a great deal. When it came to a real crisis, she was in her element. When Nick came down he had on a clean shirt and had washed his face. He would feel a great deal worse by tomorrow, she thought. But she contained herself and they ate in silence, Nick trying hard not to show that his mouth was pretty sore, she trying hard not to notice the swelling round his left eye.

“Lucky thing that Orin showed up when he did. Christina called him.”

“When you’re ready maybe you’ll tell me what happened,” Ellen said quietly.

“I’m going to bed. Tell you in the morning.”

CHRISTINA’S JOURNAL—November 18

It is hard to know exactly what happened the day before yesterday at five or a little after. We heard shots. Cornelius wouldn’t let me go out alone, so I called Orin. It is the first time I have found how terribly frustrating it is for Cornelius to be helpless. I am sure his anger was really caused by that, not by what happened—the realization that strangers could trespass on his land and he couldn’t go out himself and drive them off. Now he talks about trying to find a couple to live over the garage, relieve me of the cooking and do odd jobs. If we are to stay here all winter, as I so hope we may, this is a good idea. The man could plow and shovel, and we wouldn’t be so dependent on whomever we can get, by hook or by crook. Old Pete is hardly capable now of climbing the hill in a snowstorm. But what Cornelius doesn’t know is how hard it is to get anyone who will be willing to live so deep in the country—and they must be reliable. Well, I shall have to put my mind on it. Right now I am troubled, too troubled to think about that.