Before that sad night, when, while sitting up waiting for her son, she was startled by the sudden noise of the struggle that commenced at her door, she thought she had reason to be glad and thankful for the softening of her boy’s heart.
Then all her joy collapsed, her hopes collapsed—fell around her like a house of cards. It was a cruel, a terrible blow.
The policeman had carried her in, laid her on the bed with a rough sort of kindness, made up the fire, then gone out and thought no more about her.
How she had spent the night need hardly be said; it is better imagined. She had dropped asleep at last, and when she awoke from fevered dreams it was daylight out of doors, but darkness in the hut. The window and door were snowed up, and only a faint pale light shimmered in through the chimney, falling on the fireless hearth—a dismal sight.
Many times that day she had tried to rise, but all in vain. The cold grew more intense as night drew on, and it did its work on the poor widow’s weakened frame. Her dreams grew more bright and happy though, as her body became numbed and insensible. It was as though the spirit were rejoicing in its coming freedom. But dreams left her at last. Then all was still in the house, save the ticking of the old clock that hung against the wall.
The Squire speedily effected Bob Cooper’s freedom, and he felt he had really done a good thing.
“Now, Robert,” he told him, “you have had a sad experience. Let it be a lesson to you. I’ll give you a chance. Come to Burley, and Branson will find you honest work as long as you like to do it.”
“Lord love you, sir!” cried Bob. “There are few gentry like you.”
“I don’t know so much about that, Robert. You are not acquainted with all the good qualities of gentlefolks yet. But now, Branson, how are we all to get home?”
“Oh, I know!” said Archie. “Scallowa can easily bear Branson’s weight, and I will ride the big hunter along with Bob.”