"If the train was on time, it must have gone by an hour ago," Dorinda said, but she knew that there was no chance of its having gone by.
"Hit's gwinter thaw, sho' nuff, befo' sundown," Nimrod rejoined, speaking for the first time since they started.
"Yes, it's getting milder."
At that hour, in the bitter dawn, the station looked lonelier and more forsaken than ever. Hemmed in by the level sea of ice, the old warehouse and platform were flung there like dead driftwood. Even the red streak in the sky made the winter desolation appear more desolate.
At first she could distinguish no moving figures; but when they came nearer, she saw a small group of men gathered round an object which she had mistaken in the distance for one of the deserted freight cars.
Now she saw that this object was a train of a single coach, with an engine attached, and that the men were moving dark masses from the car to crude stretchers laid out on the snow.
"The trains are running again," Dorinda said hoarsely. "They must have got the track cleared."
"I hope dey's gwinter teck dis yeah budder," Nimrod returned. "Git up heah, hosses! We ain' got no mo' time to poke."
A chill passed down Dorinda's spine; but she was unaware of the cause that produced it, and her mind was vacant of thought. Then, while the wagon jolted up the slope, some empty words darted into her consciousness. "Something has happened. I feel that something has happened."
"Do you see anybody that you know, Nimrod?"