She approached the cottage quietly, her father's mumbling voice more distinct now, more distinctly his. But wasn't he away? Wasn't he trading furs for flour and sugar? Was he mumbling or was he with someone else, another trader perhaps, seeking refuge from the winter night's grip? Could he be on his way back home with new medicine for her mother? Every question, every breath, every step brought her closer. She was there on the dark porch; she knocked. No answer but mumbling-- was it really her father? Was it someone else? She creaked open the door.