It was a grave little company which sat around the big fireplace of the Kennedy farm-house one night in March. Outside the wind howled and blustered, and even though a huge log fire shot its flames in fine fashion up the wide chimney, there was necessity for sand-bags at the door, and for heavy homespun curtains at the windows to keep out the insistent draughts which would make their way through every chink and cranny. The younger children cuddled close together on the hearth, their mother from time to time looking up from her work to watch them thoughtfully; their father, silent and moody, gazed into the snapping fire, while Agnes herself, old enough to understand better than her brothers and sisters the cause of the unusual seriousness, paused more than once in her task of knitting to steal a glance at her parents.