At half-past ten, Dannie, with
scarcely half the rats finished, went out into the storm and
hitched to the single buggy. Then he tapped at Mary Malone's
door, quite softly, so that he would not disturb her if she had
gone to bed. She was not sleeping, however, and the loneliness of
her slight figure, as she stood with the lighted room behind her,
struck Dannie forcibly, so that his voice trembled with pity as
he said: "Mary, I've run out o' my curing compound juist in the
midst of skinning the finest bunch o' rats we've taken frae the
traps this winter. I am going to drive to town fra some more
before the stores close, and we will be back in less than an
hour. I thought I'd tell ye, so if ye wanted me ye wad know why I
dinna answer. Ye winna be afraid, will ye?"
"No," replied Mary, "I won't be afraid."
"Bolt the doors, and pile on plenty of wood to keep ye warm,"
said Dannie as he turned away.
Just for a minute Mary stared out into the storm. Then a gust of
wind nearly swept her from her feet, and she pushed the door
shut, and slid the heavy bolt into place. For a little while she
leaned and listened to the storm outside. She was a clean, neat,
beautiful Irish woman. Her eyes were wide and blue, her cheeks
pink, and her hair black and softly curling about her face and
neck.
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