tongue seemed stiff with the cold.

The man turned and stared at her with sharp blue eyes under red brows
frost-white between his cap and twice-wound red tippet. "Hey?" he
said, in a muffled voice.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Otis lives?"

"Otis?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which Otis d'ye mean? There's two Otises. D'ye mean Calvin Otis or
Jim Otis?"

"He has a son that plays the fiddle," answered Madelon, faintly.

"Then it's Jim ye mean. He died last year. He had a son Jim that
plays the fiddle. Lives down the road on the left-hand side, five
houses below the meeting-house. House with three popple-trees in
front--sets close to the road."

Madelon started, but the man's voice arrested her. "You look most
froze," said he. "Hadn't ye better go in there an' warm up?" He
pointed towards the store-windows with a rosy glow of light and
warmth transfusing their thick layers of frost. "It's pipin' hot in
there--warm ye all through in a minute. It's a terrible cold night.
Old man in there, lived 'round these parts risin' eighty years, says
he never knew sech a night. Better just step in there."