When he saw where he was, and that the dream was true, his heart almost
stood still for joy. He was indeed far away in the woods, safe and snug
and warm in this bright house, and Mrs. Freg could never reach him here.
And he would not go to the canning factory that day, nor the next, nor
the next, nor ever again. The new mother had said so. His happiness
brought him up in bed wide awake, and then he got out. He had not
learned to bound out yet, but that came.

The fire was burning merrily. All was in order, the beds made and pushed
back against the wall, the hearth swept, and some clusters of bright red
berries arranged above the fireplace. But where were Ivra and
Helma?--Ivra had called her mother "Helma" last night, and so it was
that Eric already called her and thought of her. There was not the
tiniest sign of them.

Oh, but yes. There on the floor near the hearth lay a little brown
sandal, one of its strings pulled out and making a curlycue on the
floor. That must belong to Ivra. The fire, the red berries, and the
little, worn sandal, seemed to be wishing Eric a good morning and a
happy day. There was plenty of mush in the pot swinging over the fire,
and on the table drawn up to it, a wooden spoon, a bowl, and a jug of
rich cream. So they had not forgotten him. They had only let him sleep
as long as he would. They must have stolen about like mice, getting
breakfast, clearing up, and tidying the room; and then closed the door
very softly behind them when they went out.

And wonder of wonders! After yesterday's Indian Summer, outside it was a
wild winter day. Gusts of snow were hurling against all the windows of
the house, and blowing a fine spray under the door. Eric with his face