set hearts aching with those eyes of hers, when she gets a bit grown up."
"We must go back," said Barbe. "And, Bernard, you must be stiff with your long tramp. They rode mostly all night, and when the horses gave out, walked. You must go to bed with the chickens."
Sandy gave a snort.
"I'll be over in the morn, ready for a talk or a fight," laughed Bernard. "God be praised that He has cared for us all these years, and let us meet again."
Sandy looked after his son, who had the fine air of a trained soldier.
"An' when we get him fatted up," said Norah, "he will be main good-looking."
Daffodil had sauntered slowly homeward. She looked for some one to call after her, but there was no sound. Oh, her mother did not care for her now, and Norry had not so much as coaxed her in and offered her a piece of cake. She entered the house rather sadly. Gran'mere was concocting some treat for supper. She just turned and said, "Were they glad to see your father?"
"I don't know. I didn't go in." Then she crept up alongside of grandfather, and leaned her face down on his breast and cried softly.
"Dear, what has hurt my little girl?" pushing aside the mop of hair.
"Mother won't want me any more. Nor grandad, nor Norry, nor – nor any one;" and Daffodil seemed very lonesome in a great cold world, colder than any winter day.
"Yes, I want you. Oh, they'll all want you after a day or two. And it's a great thing for your father to come home safe."
"I don't believe I am going to like him. He isn't like what I thought."
Grandfather smiled. "Wait and see what he is like to-morrow. It's almost night now, and things look different, cloudy-like. There, dear, don't cry when we are all full of joy."
CHAPTER III
WELCOME
Neighbors kept dropping in, and the table was crowded at supper time. Hospitality was ungrudging in those days. Grandfather had the little girl close under his wing, but she had a curiously strange feeling, as if she was outside of it all. Then her mother said:
"Wouldn't you rather go to bed, dear? The men will want to talk about battles, and things, not best for little girls to hear. When you are older they will interest you more."
"Yes," she replied, and kissed grandfather. Then her mother undressed her and tucked her in her little pallet.
"Oh, you will always love me?" she cried, in a tremulous tone.
"Always, always. And father, too." Even if other children should come, the years when Daffodil had been her all could never be dimmed.
The mother shut the door softly. They were kindly enough, this conglomerate population, but rough, and the French strain in the Bradins had tended to refinement, as well as living somewhat to themselves.
Daffodil cried a little, it seemed a comfort. But she was tired and soon fell asleep, never hearing a sound, and the company was rather noisy. When she woke, the door to the living room was partly open, and the yellow candlelight was shining through. Mornings were dark, for they had come to the shortest days. There was a curious rustling sound, and Dilly ran out in her little bare feet, though the carpet was thick and warm. Gran'mere was cooking, Barbe was washing dishes, Judy sat by the fire in a grave upright fashion. How white the windows were!
"Oh, it's snow!" cried the little girl. "Are we snowed up, as grandad tells about? Why, we can't see out!"
"Yes, it's a tremendous snow. Bring out your clothes, and let me dress you. Don't be noisy."
The child seldom was noisy. She wondered at the request. And what had happened? She had a confused sense of something unusual in her mind.
"Father is asleep. It was late when he went to bed last night, and he is so tired out that we shall let him sleep as long as he will. Get your clothes, and shut the door softly."
She did as she was bidden, with a furtive glance at the mound under the blankets. Her mother soon had her dressed in a sort of brownish red flannel frock, and a blue and white checked apron. Then she brushed out her silky hair, and made three or four thick curls.
"Oh, isn't it funny! Why, we can't see anything, not a house, or a tree, nor grandad's."
They could see that in almost any storm.
She went and patted Judy. Gran'mere was frying bacon, and when that was brown and crisp, she slipped some eggs in the pan. Grandfather kept his bed late winter mornings, and only wanted a bit of toast and a cup of coffee. That was generally made by roasting wheat grains, with a tiny bit of corn, and made very fair coffee. But it was necessity then, not any question of nerves or health.
So they ate their breakfast and everything seemed quite as usual except the snow. So far there had been none to speak of. Gran'mere put out the candle, and the room was in a sort of whitey-gray light.
There was queer, muffled banging outside, that came nearer, and finally touched the door, and a voice said "Hello! hello!"
Barbe opened it. There was grandad, in his frieze coat and fur cap, a veritable Santa Claus.
"Well, was there ever the beat of this! Stars out at twelve? The old woman's geese are gettin' plucked close to the skin. Why, it's furious! Dilly, come out and let me tumble you in the snow bank."
She shrank back, laughing.
"I'd have to dig you out again. How is the lad? Did we upset grandfather with the racket?"
"Oh, no. He always sleeps late. Have a cup of hot coffee."
"An' that's just what I will. Well, the lad's lucky that he was no' a day later, he'd been stumped for good. By the nose of St. Andrew, I never saw so much snow fall in a little time. An' it's dark as the chimney back."
"The snow is white," interposed Daffodil.
"Ah, ye're a cunnin' bairn. But put a lot of it together, and it turns the air. The coffee's fine, it warm the cockles of one's heart."
"What are they?"
"Oh, the little fellys that get hot, an' cold, an' keep the blood racin' round. And have delight bottled up to give out now and then when one is well treated."
Daffodil nodded. She was not going to say she did not understand.
"An' the b'y? He wants fat, sure. The country's made a poor shoat out of him. Well, I must go back, shovelin' for the path's about grown up. The boss out to the barn?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll kem over agin, an' give him a hand."
"Grandad has a good heart," said Mrs. Bradin.
Mr. Bradin came in presently with a pail of milk. "This beats all for a storm," he said. "Now, I'll take a second breakfast. Dilly, come and sit here beside me, and take a taste of things. Not a livin' hen is up yet, just balls of feathers on the perch."
"Couldn't you take me out to see them?"
"If you get snowed under, we'll have to send for grandad. Well, they did have a roarin' time last night. He was plucky to take that long walk, though the poor fellows
