"No 'tisn't," returned she, "but it is his brother and nephew, whom I came across in the snow some little time before getting here."
"That's lucky," cried the man outside, "for I've found out where Mr. Gerald is!"
They were all very glad to hear that, and when at length the snow was cleared off sufficiently to admit a fine, tall young man they besieged him with questions.
Harry Quilter related with much pleasure, as he shook hands with Mr. Morton and Cyril, that a hunter had informed him at which lumberer's camp he had lately seen the missing man. "It was only about ten miles off as the bird might fly," he said, which caused Cynthy to exclaim it would be nearly double that distance if they rode there.
Harry then proceeded to empty his pockets, which were stuffed with tea, dried deer-flesh, salt bacon, and a great hunk of bread. Asked how it was he knew of the whereabouts of his young lady, he answered that a trapper he had met had informed him that he had seen a great quantity of smoke issuing from the chimney of the haunted house. It was impossible to believe that a mere ghost could have lighted a fire so large as to cause all that smoke, and as Harry was anxious about the non-appearance of Cynthy Wood at her home he had put on his moccasins and plodded through the snow. He had brought as much food as he could carry, in case there should be a difficulty about returning that night.
They would have been almost merry, as they sat round the rough table enjoying the welcome food, if it had not been for the thought of the tragedy which had deprived that poor house of its owner, and also the fact that Blackie was still calling out for food, which made the tears come into his master's eyes every now and then. He would have taken his own plate into the kitchen if Cynthy had not forbidden it.
"You need support more than that fat pony of yours does, Cyril," she said in her brisk way. "But here is some more lump sugar. Now I can't spare anything else. Sugar is very feeding, you know."
"And Blackie loves it. Thank you, Cynthy. Oh, just come and see my pony, will you, Mr. Harry?" he added to the stranger.
"What! Do you keep ponies in my house?" cried a harsh voice behind them.
They all turned to look at the door, which had silently opened. In the doorway stood an old man, with a hooked nose and long, neglected hair. He was so thin that he looked almost like a skeleton, and he leaned heavily upon a strong, notched stick. On his feet he wore moccasins, with which he had been able to walk through the snow.