She held out her hand to me, saying with a smile, "It's a very dirty one, but it's the best one I have to offer."
I clasped it gladly, shook it warmly, as I replied, "It's not half as bad and black as mine, but what can we expect in this awful climate, this terrible region!"
"Ah! what indeed," said she.
When I had gone fifty yards from the hut I looked back. She stood framed in the doorway against the light. I called to her "Go inside. Stay there till I return. I'll not be long; keep up your heart and your father's. All will now be well." Then an idea struck me, and I cried, "But tell me, what is your father's name and yours! Mine is Herbert Singleton, of Blumfield, Bedfordshire."
She answered loudly, but in tones I never will forget, "My father is William Bell of Hawkenhurst in Kent, and I am Mary Bell—but they always call me May!"
Then I shouted cheerily, "Farewell, God bless you!" and calling again to Patch, who was quite reluctant to leave her, I was off.
CHAPTER VIII.
Through the keen air I hurried. It was light enough. The aurora was brilliant. Whether day or night I did not know, or care.
I was enraptured. I seemed to be walking on air. The rough hill-sides, the ice-clad rocks, I passed over with the agility of a fawn. I had companions, my loneliness was ended!