The cold grey light of the early morning at this deadest season of the year fell cheerlessly on the living-room; in which for the greater safety of the house he had insisted on passing the night.

Anne, whose daily task it was to open the shutters, had been down then: she must have been down, or whence the pile of fresh cones and splinters that crackled, and spirted flame about the turned log.

Perhaps it was her mother's cry that had roused him; and she had re-ascended to her room.
He strode to the staircase door, opened it softly and listened.

No, all was silent above; and then a new notion struck him, and he glanced round.

Her hood was gone.