Winter had begun, and although the briars shone red along the hedgerows
and the stunted oaks had not lost all their leaves, bitter sleet blew
across the dale when Grace went up the muddy lonning to Mireside farm.
Railton's daughter had for a time helped the housekeeper at Tarnside, and
Grace, hearing that the farmer had been ill, was going to ask about him.
It was nearly dark when she entered the big kitchen. The lamp had not
been lighted, but a peat fire burned in the wide grate, where irons for
cooking pots hung above the blaze. A bright glow leaped up and spread
about the kitchen, touching the people in the room, and then faded as she
shut the massive door.

Grace thought her arrival had embarrassed the others, because nobody said
anything for a moment or two. Railton sat in an old oak chair by the
fire, with a stick near his hand; Tom, the shepherd, occupied the middle
of the floor; and Kit Askew leaned against the table, at which Mrs.
Railton and Lucy sat. Grace wished she could see them better, but the
blaze had sunk and the fire burned low, giving out an aromatic smell, and
throwing dull reflections on the old oak furniture, copper kettles, and
tall brass candlesticks. As a rule, the lonely homesteads in the dales
are furnished well, with objects made long since and handed down from
father to son.

Then Mrs. Railton began to talk, rather nervously, and Grace turned to
the farmer as the light spread about the room again. He had a thin, lined
face; his shoulders were bent, and his pose was slack. Sickness no doubt
accounted for something, but Grace imagined his attitude hinted at
dejection.

"How are you to-day?" she asked.