So this was arranged.
It was getting gloamed ere they neared the widow’s lonesome hut. The Squire with Branson had left Archie and Bob, and cut across the frozen moor by themselves.
“How glad my mother will be!” said Bob.
And now they came in sight of the cottage, and Bob rubbed his eyes and looked again and again, for no smoke came from the chimney, no signs of life was about.
The icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; one side of the hut was entirely overblown with drift, and the door in the other looked more like the entrance to some cave in Greenland north. Bad enough this was; but ah, in the inside of the poor little house the driven snow met them as they pushed open the door! It had blown down the wide chimney, covered the hearth, formed a wreath like a sea-wave on the floor, and even o’er-canopied the bed itself. And the widow, the mother, lay underneath. No, not dead; she breathed, at least.
When the room had been cleared and swept of snow; when a roaring fire had been built on the hearth, and a little warm tea poured gently down her throat, she came gradually back again to life, and in a short time was able to be lifted into a sitting position, and then she recognised her son and Archie.
“Oh, mother, mother!” cried Bob, the tears streaming over his sun-browned face, “the Maker’ll never forgive me for all the ill I’ve done ye.”
“Hush! Bobbie, hush! What, lad, the Maker no’ forgive ye! Eh, ye little know the grip o’ His goodness! But you’re here, you’re innocent. Thank Him for that.”
“Ye’ll soon get better, mother, and I’ll be so good. The Squire is to give me work too.”