"Are you sure you are not hurt?" Mousie asked me.
"Sure; it was like tumbling into a feather bed."
"Stop a bit," cried Mr. Jones. "There's a turn in the road here. Let me go on a little and lay out your course."
"Oh, I wish we had stayed anywhere under shelter," said my wife.
"Courage," I cried. "When we get home, we'll laugh over this."
"Now," shouted Mr. Jones, "veer gradually off to the left toward my voice—all right;" and we jogged on again, stopping from time to time to let our invisible guide explore the road.
Once more he cried, "Stop a minute."
The wind roared and shrieked around us, and it was growing colder. With a chill of fear I thought, "Could John Jones have mistaken the road?" and I remembered how four people and a pair of horses had been frozen within a few yards of a house in a Western snow-storm.
"Are you cold, children?" I asked.
"Yes, I'm freezing," sobbed Winnie. "I don't like the country one bit."