“I cannot,” replied Dallas sadly; “but I feel sure now that no one is asking for help.”
The hours passed and the fire was made up again and again, while towards morning the storm lulled.
The dog lay perfectly still; but he was not dead when Dallas roused himself up to examine him, for he feebly rapped the floor with his tail.
Abel had sunk into the sleep of utter weariness, and Dallas let him lie as he replenished the fire, opened the door softly, plunged through the snow, and, as well as the darkness would allow, satisfied himself that he was right about the riven tree. “It was very horrible to think, though,” he said to himself; “but no one could have been travelling on such a night.”
He returned to the hut, replenished the fire, and the billy was boiling ready for its pinch of tea, and the newly made cake baking, by the time Abel opened his eyes and sighed.
“What a useless log I am, Dal,” he said.
“Are you?”
“Yes, I lie here doing nothing. How is the dog?”
“Quite dry and fluffy.”
“But he is not dead?”