"I'm not worrying about their distress," he told her. "I only want to be sure and catch them before they give us up for lost—and turn back. I can never forgive myself for failing to waken. It was just that I was so tired——"
"I won't let you blame yourself for that," the girl replied, slowly but earnestly. "Besides, Uncle Kenly won't go away for two or three days at least. He's been my guardian—I'm his ward—and I'm sure he'll make every effort to learn what happened to us."
"I suppose you're right. You know whether or not you can trust Lounsbury. I only know—that I can't trust Vosper."
"They'll be waiting for us, don't fear for that," the girl went on. She tried to put all the assurance she could into her tone. "But how can we get across?"
"That remains to be seen. If they're there to help, with the horses, we might find a way." The man finished dressing, then turned to go. "I'm sorry I can't even take time to light your fire. You must stay in bed, anyway—all day."
He left hurriedly, and as the door opened the wind blew a handful of snow in upon her. The snow had deepened during the night, and fall was heavier than ever. Shivering with cold and aching in every muscle, she got up and put on her underclothing. It was almost dry already. Then, wholly miserable and dejected, she lay down again between her blankets, waiting for Bill's return. And his step was heavy and slow on the threshold when he came.
She couldn't interpret the expression on his face when she saw him in the doorway. He was curiously sober and intent, perhaps even a little pale. "Go to sleep, Miss Tremont," he advised. "I'll make a fire for breakfast."
He bent to prepare kindling. The girl swallowed painfully, but shaken with dread shaped her question at last. "What—what did you find out?"
He looked squarely into her eyes. "Nothing that you'll want to hear, Miss Tremont," he told her soberly. "I went to the river bank and looked across. They—they——"
"They are gone?" the girl cried.