feet extending beyond, enormous in gray and white woolen socks. Wrapped around her ankles appeared her yellow silk sweater, and her coral Shetland wool, both of which she had worn underneath the green coat. She moved her fingers. They came in contact with unfamiliar corduroy and canvas.
As Edna lay conjecturing, she heard a door open abruptly, and in the instant before she closed her eyes to pretend sleep she caught a glimpse of Mr. Mathewson with his arms filled with firewood. It was when he was kneeling before a stone fireplace, piling birch bark for kindling on a pile of somebody's last year's ashes, his back toward her, that Edna decided to speak.
"Hello!" she called.
He rose quickly, and came over to her.
"Hello! Feeling better?" he said.
"Is this your coat I've got on?" Edna asked.
He nodded.
"Whose house are we in?" she went on.
"I don't know whose house it is. It's somebody's summer place. I had to knock in a window."
Then it had been as she feared. Mr. Mathewson had established her here beneath the flowered cretonne curtains. Mr. Mathewson had taken off her outside things, and in their place put on some
