Such threats and language could not be withstood, and Master Morgan, ever willing to be of service to a fellow being, and only reluctant on account of the tired horse, took his lanthorn from the mantel-shelf and went out.
As soon as True left the protection of his stable he felt a storm brewing, not so far away either; he hoped it would not break before his return, yet not knowing where he was going.
Uncle Peter rode him over to Dame Margery’s, who, when she came out, was so bundled up in bearskins that had she not spoken at once True might have been startled. Throwing her bags across the saddle and bidding Uncle Peter a cheery good-night she set out on her errand.
It was a cruel night, clouds large and low swept over the moon’s face and piled themselves up along the horizon like banks of snow. Dame Margery spoke soothingly and blithely to the horse which partly reconciled him to the dire cold.
When they arrived at their destination Margery went into the hut and a young man came out to throw a fur square over True’s shivering back and lead him out of the wind.
Hours passed. Inside the hut a child lay on a pallet on the floor; Margery knelt beside it. Finally she withdrew her arm from beneath the little head very gently and rose to her full, lean height. The white-faced, dry-eyed mother stood near—undemonstrative as Vermont women are apt to be but none the less grateful for all their stillness.
She followed Margery to the door as the latter stepped out into the bitter night.
“Looks like a storm,” Margery said, over her shoulder. “See that you don’t forget the pleurisy-root tea—and have it piping hot!”
“Best tarry the night,” urged the woman, hospitably, from the door where she stood, screening a sputtering dip from the wind with her hand.
“Nay, nay, yet I give you thanks,” answered Margery, gaily. “I am not afraid of storms; I was born in one and brought up in a wigwam!”