"I hope you haven't cut any more of that green oak; your father
couldn't keep warm."

"This is hickory, dead hickory, with some seasoned oak. Father'll
have to take his coat off and you'll have to get a fan."

There was a moment of silence.

"Supper's over," she said simply.

She held in one hand a partly eaten biscuit.

"I'll be in soon now. I've nothing to do but kindle my fire."

After another short interval she asked:

"Is it going, to snow?"

"It's going to do something."

She stepped slowly back into the warm room and closed the door.

David hurried to the woodpile and carried the sticks for his own
grate upstairs, making two trips of it. The stairway was dark; his
room dark and damp, and filled with the smell of farm boots and
working clothes left wet in the closets. Groping his way to the
mantelpiece, he struck a sulphur match, lighted a half-burned
candle, and kneeling down, began to kindle his fire.