If Helma should come back while they were away, she must find a warm
house. Ivra skipped back after they were outside to set out a bowl and
spoon for her, and stand the cream jug beside them.

Then away they fled, running and jumping in the frosty morning air. Ivra
taught Eric some games that could be played by two alone. They were
running games, climbing games, hiding games, jumping games. Ivra was
swift and strong and unafraid. Her cheeks reddened like apples in the
cold. She was a fine playfellow.

Not until they were hungry did they think of home. Then they ran, hand
in hand at last, jumping the garden hedge like deer, their hearts
beating with the expectation of running straight into Helma's arms. But
no Helma was there. Nora had come with the milk, left it, eaten the rest
of the porridge, and gone away again without waiting for a word with any
one. The children wished she had stayed. They needed some one to talk
with about their mother. Of course they knew she would come back, all in
her good time. Ivra made Eric understand that. But the room seemed even
emptier without her than it had in the morning. They cheered each other
as best they could, drank a lot of the fresh milk and ate some nuts.
They wanted to get away into the forest again and forget the empty
house, so they did not try to cook anything.

They played hard all the afternoon. Towards twilight it grew warmer and
began to snow, great wet flakes. They ran home, leaping the hedge again.
The house was still empty. Helma was not there.

They stirred up the fire, and sat down on the floor in front of it to
talk over what they should do. Then it happened,--the strange, the
beautiful, the frightful thing! Eric saw a face at the window. It was so