Part 18 (1/2)

”I've got it,” he said, pointing to the flour. ”Where is it to go? I'll give you a hand to heave it down.”

Leger laughed and pointed to the shanty. ”Go right in. I'll manage the bags myself,” he said. ”Tomlinson and the boys have been up and built us a new store-shed.”

Ingleby turned towards the shanty, and as he neared the doorway a slim figure cut against the light, and a hand was stretched out to draw him in. Then he felt a little thrill run through him as he stood in the welcome warmth with Hetty looking up at him. There was an almost maternal gentleness and compa.s.sion in her eyes, for Ingleby's face was a trifle grey and the water ran from him. Then she turned swiftly and thrust an armful of clothing upon him.

”Put them on this minute; they're warm and dry. There's a light in the new shed,” she said. ”Then come back here. You're not to go outside again.”

Ingleby was glad to obey her, and when he came back Hetty had drawn a rude chair of deerhide towards the fire.

”Sit down, and don't worry about trying to talk,” she said.

Ingleby sank wearily into the chair, and lay there in a state of blissful content watching her with half-closed eyes. It was an inestimable luxury to be free from the chill of his saturated clothing and feel the warmth creep through him, but by degrees he became sensible that his contentment had more than a physical origin. The soft rustle of Hetty's dress was soothing as she laid out a simple meal; her quick, light footsteps suggested a gratifying anxiety to minister to his comfort; and he found the fas.h.i.+on in which she smiled at him, as she did once or twice, especially pleasant. Hetty had a spice of temper and a will of her own, but she was also endued with the kindliness which makes up for a good many deficiencies. Ingleby turned his head at last and looked at her languidly.

”You make this shanty feel like home--though it is a very long while since I had one,” he said.

Hetty flushed, ever so slightly, and Ingleby naturally did not notice it.

”We have been making improvements since you left,” she said. ”It really doesn't need very much to make a place look comfortable.”

Ingleby appeared reflective. ”Well,” he said, ”I suppose it doesn't. I don't know how you manage it, Hetty, but everything seems just as one would like it when you arrange it. Still, that's not quite what I mean either. I'm really not sure I know what I do mean--you see, I'm sleepy.”

Hetty stopped close beside him and looked down with a little smile, though there was just a shade more colour than usual in her face.

”You are worn out, and needn't worry about it until you have had supper,” she said. ”If I had known you would come back like this I would never have let you go.”

”Still, you wanted the flour.”

”I didn't mean you to wear yourself out to save those lazy miners from baking their own bread.”

Ingleby shook his head. ”I shall be all right to-morrow, and I'm going to talk,” he said, ”That wasn't why you sent me. One doesn't start a bakery out of philanthropy.”

”Well,” said Hetty, ”you know I wanted the money.”

”For Tom and me!” said Ingleby reproachfully. ”I felt horribly mean about it all the way to the settlement.”

”Is it very unpleasant then to let me do anything for you?”

”No,” said Ingleby. ”That is, of course, it's generally very nice.

Still, in this case----”

Hetty looked at him curiously. ”Oh, I know! Still, you seemed quite angry once because I didn't care to let you lend Tom the money to bring us out.”

”That, of course, was very different.”

Hetty smiled. ”Yes,” she said. ”When one is a girl it usually is.”

Ingleby, who was very drowsy, did not seem quite sure what to make of this, and gazed meditatively at the fire.

”That stone hearth wasn't there when I left,” he said. ”Who made it, Hetty?”

”Tomlinson. Tom went round to tell the boys about the bakery, and Tomlinson came over to show him how to build the oven.”