The room seemed to swim round Sage as she heard the sound of voices above the roaring of the wind, and going with her aunt and the two affrighted servants to the door, they stood their ground in spite of the beating and driving snow, till a stiffened white figure was borne into the great parlour and laid before the fire, the Churchwarden giving orders in all directions.
“We could never get Vinnicombe across to-night, so we must bring him round ourselves. Quick, every one. Hot blankets, and let’s get these snowy things away. Why in God’s name don’t some one shut that door?” he roared, as the wind and snow followed them into the room, making the fire roar furiously and the sparks stream up.
“Don’t be downhearted,” cried the Churchwarden, setting the example, as John Berry came in to see what was the matter.
“Hey, and what is it?” he said, laying his hand upon the wheelwright’s arm.
“Mr Cyril Mallow, Master Berry; we found him in the snow.”
It was just as Sage’s heart gave a great bound of relief, for as the mist cleared from her eyes and the giddiness passed away, she found herself kneeling beside her husband’s brother, frozen stiff where he had been waiting for hours at the trysting-place. And as Sage gazed with a strange feeling of awe at the stern white features set in death, the Churchwarden said softly, “Nay, Morrison, thou’rt wrong, my lad; it is Mr Frank. He must have been coming here.”