Mrs. Winters had said for the tenth time, "Why, father, I think she wouldn't start back in this storm." Nevertheless she placed her rocking-chair close by the window and looked down the road far more than she sewed. Their anxiety reached its height when they saw a stranger toiling up the hill bearing their daughter in his arms. The door was opened long before they reached it, and Edna called out, "I'm all right, mother."
"Why, it's Mr. Monteith, as sure as I live," said Edna's father.
"Yes, Mr. Winters," said Mr. Monteith, "I found a stray lamb of yours on the highway, and brought it home."
"May God reward you," and Mr. Winters clasped his hand warmly. "I have been very anxious. I did not see what was to become of her if she was on her way in this terrible storm. How providential that you happened to be going her way."
"You will stay with us to-night, of course," Mr. Winters said.
"Oh, no, indeed! Thank you! I must get back before dark. Will rest a few minutes, though."
The Storm King was out in full force that day, for during those few minutes huge banks piled themselves against windows and doors, and the wind shrieked and moaned like a demon, shaking the house to its foundations.
"Now," said Mr. Winters as his guest rose to go, "it is madness for you to think of going home tonight, and I must insist that you stay. I am disabled just now, or I would harness old Prince and get you through."
Here Edna came in with her pleading eyes and, "Do stay; I know it is not safe for you to go."
Motherly Mrs. Winters entreated also. How could he resist such urgency, especially when it exactly fitted in with what he desired above all things to do. He yielded, and was soon comfortably established in the large old rocker by the fire. And now he enjoyed the pleasure of a new experience. The stereotyped fashionable house he knew all about, but this old house that looked small, and yet stretched itself out into many cosy rooms; it was quaint, it was unique, and so was the little household. It was like stepping into a book, and that a book of poems. What was the charm of that low-browed room he sat in? Could it be the broad fireplace, wherein blazed and snapped a veritable back-log? Mr. Winters had stoves to warm the house, but he insisted on keeping this fire to look at.