Richard, must needs compare her in his own heart, to her
disparagement, with some maid not his sister, but they all viewed her
with pride. Old David Hautville's eyes, under his thick, white brows,
followed her and dwelt upon her as she moved around the kitchen.

Madelon had got out her red cloak and her silk hood, and it was
nearly time to start when there was a knock on the door. Madelon's
face was pale in a second, then red again. She pushed Richard aside.
"I'll go to the door," said she.

She knew somehow that it was Burr Gordon, and when she opened the
door he stood there. He looked curiously embarrassed, but she did not
notice that. His mere presence for the moment seemed to fill all her
comprehension. She had no eye for shades of expression.

"Come in," said she, all blushing and trembling before him, and yet
with a certain dignity which never quite deserted her.

"Can I see you a minute?" Burr said, awkwardly.

"Come this way."

Madelon led the way into the best room, where there was no fire. It
had not been warmed all winter, except on nights when Burr had come
courting her. In the midst of it the great curtained bedstead reared
itself, holding its feather-bed like a drift of snow. The floor was
sanded in a fine, small pattern, there were white tasselled curtains
at the windows, and there was a tall chest of drawers that reached
the ceiling. The room was just as Madelon's mother, who had been one
of the village girls, had left it.