"Won't you sit down by the fire and rest and dry yourself?" asked
the settler's wife, rather timidly, after watching him for a moment.

He looked at the door again, abstractedly it seemed, or as if he had
not heard her.

Then Uncle Abe (who, by the way, was supposed to know more than he
should have been supposed to know) spoke out.

"Set down, man! Set down and dry yerself. There's no one there
except the boys--that's the boys' room. Would yer like to look
through?"

The man seemed to rouse himself from a reverie. He let his arm and
hand fall from the doorpost to his side like dead things. "Thank
you, missus," he said, apparently unconscious of Uncle Abe, and went
and sat down in front of the fire.

"Hadn't you better take your wet coat off and let me dry it?"

"Thank you." He took off his coat, and, turning the sleeve, inside
out, hung it from his knees with the lining to the fire then he leaned
forward, with his hands on his knees, and stared at the burning logs
and steam. He was unarmed, or, if not, had left his pistols in the
saddle-bag outside.

Andy Page, general handy-man (who was there all the time, but has not
been mentioned yet, because he didn't mention anything himself which
seemed necessary to this dark picture), now remarked to the stranger,
with a wooden-face expression but a soft heart, that the rain would be