It was also very lonely, and the girl, who was young, felt a great longing for human fellowship.
Her father presently took up a book, and there was silence only broken by the rattle of loose shingles overhead and the soft thud against the windows of driving snow, while the girl sat dreaming over her sewing of the brighter days in far-off England which had slipped away from her for ever.

Five years was not a very long time, but during it her English friends had forgotten her, and one who had scarcely left her side that memorable night had, though she read of the doings of his regiment now and then, sent her no word or token.

A little flush crept into her cheek as, remembering certain words of his, she glanced at her reddened wrists and little toil-hardened hands.

She who had been a high-spirited girl with the world at her feet then, was now one of the obscure toilers whose work was never done.

Still, because it was only on rare occasions that work left her leisure to think about herself, it had not occurred to her that she had lost but little by the change.
The hands that had once been soft and white were now firm and brown, the stillness of the great firs and cedars had given her a calm tranquillity in place of restless haste, and frost and sun the clear, warm-tinted complexion, while a look of strength and patience had replaced the laughter in her hazel eyes.
Suddenly, however, there was a trampling in the snow and a sound of voices, followed after, an interval by a knocking at the door.