When the night came the air at Lyvern was like iron in the intense cold.  The trees and the wind seemed ice-bound, as the water was, and silence, stillness, and starlight, frozen hard, brooded over the country.  At the chalet, Smilash, indifferent to the price of coals, kept up a roaring fire that glowed through the uncurtained windows, and tantalized the chilled wayfarer who did not happen to know, as the herdsmen of the neighborhood did, that he was welcome to enter and warm himself without risk of rebuff from the tenant.  Smilash was in high spirits.  He had become a proficient skater, and frosty weather was now a luxury to him.  It braced him, and drove away his gloomy fits, whilst his sympathies were kept awake and his indignation maintained at an exhilarating pitch by the sufferings of the poor, who, unable to afford fires or skating, warmed themselves in such sweltering heat as overcrowding produces in all seasons.

It was Smilash’s custom to make a hot drink of oatmeal and water for himself at half-past nine o’clock each evening, and to go to bed at ten.  He opened the door to throw out some water that remained in the saucepan from its last cleansing.  It froze as it fell upon the soil.  He looked at the night, and shook himself to throw off an oppressive sensation of being clasped in the icy ribs of the air, for the mercury had descended below the familiar region of crisp and crackly cold and marked a temperature at which the numb atmosphere seemed on the point of congealing into black solidity.  Nothing was stirring.

“By George!” he said, “this is one of those nights on which a rich man daren’t think!”

He shut the door, hastened back to his fire, and set to work at his caudle, which he watched and stirred with a solicitude that would have amused a professed cook.  When it was done he poured it into a large mug, where it steamed invitingly.  He took up some in a spoon and blew upon it to cool it.  Tap, tap, tap, tap! hurriedly at the door.

“Nice night for a walk,” he said, putting down the spoon; then shouting, “Come in.”

The latch rose unsteadily, and Henrietta, with frozen tears on her cheeks, and an unintelligible expression of wretchedness and rage, appeared.  After an instant of amazement, he sprang to her and clasped her in his arms, and she, against her will, and protesting voicelessly, stumbled into his embrace.

“You are frozen to death,” he exclaimed, carrying her to the fire.  “This seal jacket is like a sheet of ice.  So is your face” (kissing it).  “What is the matter?  Why do you struggle so?”

“Let me go,” she gasped, in a vehement whisper.  “I h—­hate you.”

“My poor love, you are too cold to hate anyone—­even your husband.  You must let me take off these atrocious French boots.  Your feet must be perfectly dead.”

By this time her voice and tears were thawing in the warmth of the chalet and of his caresses.  “You shall not take them off,” she said, crying with cold and sorrow.  “Let me alone.  Don’t touch me.  I am going away—­straight back.  I will not speak to you, nor take off my things here, nor touch anything in the house.”