A deep silence reigned in the valley; even the larch and the firs had given up their songs. There was the scrunch of the foot at each step, and now and then a rustle in the hedge, as a bramble became overweighted with snow and dislodged its load into the ditch, or last year’s leaves, still clinging to some oak, rustled and were still again. Otherwise the world was dead or asleep; it made little difference which.
A cottage was passed further on, and a chink of light from a candle within showed that the snowflakes were still falling fast. This way would be impassable by morning. At the turn of the lane voices were heard. They were some way off; but it was easy to recognise that they were those of two men talking. Presently the voices became more audible. It was too dark to see who the men were as they passed: at night, when snow is falling, those met are up and gone by almost before their approach is realised. There was just time for a “Good-night,” with a “Good-night to you, Sir,” in reply.
For an instant there was silence: then the men began talking again.
“Bless the Lord!—did you see who that was, Tom, and on such a night as this!” remarked one.
“Don’t know as I know’d un.”
“Not know un?”
“Why, bless the life on yer—that’s Him an’ his dog!”
“There, was it now? Him an’ his dog, for sure. Carrying un, wus he? Like un.”
“Ah—allus together, ain’t ’em?”
“For his part, he don’t seem to have much else.”