“On the contrary,” she felt duty-bound to argue, having experience as a nurse, “you might well make yourself worse. At least sit down by the fire. I’ll bring you some coffee when it’s ready.”

Mr. Murdoch gave a loud, throat-clearing cough, probably intended to warn all and sundry that he was awake. Doubtless, he had a great deal of experience when it came to sleeping in close proximity with strangers and mere acquaintances. Evangeline heard the cot creaking under his considerable weight as he raised himself, but of course she would not risk so much as a glance in his direction.

In the dawn light, she saw Scully’s sidelong grin. Apparently, her sense of modesty amused him. She gave him a narrow-eyed look in return, but he appeared undaunted.

“What sort of weather have we got ourselves to-day?” mused Calvin T. Murdoch. Although his voice was naturally resonant, he was making an effort to keep it at a low pitch for Abigail’s sake, and Evangeline liked him more for the effort.

She knew from the sweet silence in the air that snow had fallen in the night, might indeed still be falling. It struck her as odd that she had not thought to look, first thing, but it was Mr. Murdoch who went to the front window and opened a shutter to peer through the glass.

“Well, then,” the peddler announced, “it doesn’t look so bad. About six inches or so, that’s all. Me and that old mule, we can manage that well enough.”

“Where will you go?” Evangeline heard herself ask. Having the peddler around made things awkward, that was undeniable, but he was company, and she would miss him when he had gone away. “Toward Springwater station, by any chance?”

Mr. Murdoch turned from the frosted window, which he had wiped with the wide heel of his palm, his broad smile clearly visible even in the gloom. “I wouldn’t dare pass up the McCaffreys without so much as a handshake and a howdy-do. Why, Miss June-bug would have my hide for shoe leather, if I didn’t come by with her spices and the notions for her winter sewing.”

Evangeline wanted to return the pretty tin, now empty of Mrs. McCaffrey’s fudge, and send along a written thank-you, and said so.

Mr. Murdoch, who had apparently slept in his clothes, sat himself down on the cot, which sagged dangerously under his bulk, to pull on his boots. “I’ll be glad to perform that service, Mrs. Wainwright. In the meantime, I’d better see to the chores before I go. You’ll have your hands full around here, what with Scully laid up and all.”

“I’m not laid up,” Scully pointed out, bristling a little.

Evangeline hid a smile, though she felt a pang from being called “Mrs. Wainwright.”

“You just stay put,” Mr. Murdoch commanded. “I’ll look after the animals and the chickens and fetch some water.” With that, he donned his coat, took up two buckets, and went out to brave the morning.