CHAPTER III.

ABBY ROCK.

If Abby Rock's kitchen was not heaven, it seemed very near it to Marie
that evening. She found herself suddenly in an atmosphere of peace and
comfort of which her life had heretofore known nothing. The evening
had fallen chill outside, but here all was warm and light and cheerful,
and the warmth and cheer seemed to be embodied in the person of the
woman who moved quickly to and fro, stirring the fire, putting the
kettle on the hob (for those were the days of the open fire, of crane
and kettle, and picturesque, if not convenient, housekeeping), drawing
a chair up near the cheerful blaze. Marie felt herself enfolded with
comfort. A shawl was thrown over her shoulders; she was lifted like a
child, and placed in the chair by the fireside; and now, as she sat in
a dream, fearing every moment to wake and find herself back in the old
life again, a cup of tea, hot and fragrant, was set before her, and the
handkerchief tenderly loosened from her neck, while a kind voice bade
her drink, for it would do her good.

"You look beat out, and that's the fact," said Abby Rock. "To-morrow
you shall tell me all about it, but you no need to say a single word
to-night, only just set still and rest ye. I'm a lone woman here. I
buried my mother last June, and I'm right glad to have company once in
a while. Abby Rock, my name is; and perhaps if you'd tell me yours, we
should feel more comfortable like, when we come to sit down to supper.
What do you say?"