There was snow on the ground, hard, crisp snow.
Harry lit his candle, then he got out his small writing-case, and, after some time and considerable pains, succeeded in writing a letter, which he carefully folded and addressed.
Young though he was—with his tiny fowling-piece—a gift from one of his uncles—the boy could tumble either rabbit or hare, or bring down a bird on the wing, but he was not particularly clever with the pen. I wish I could say that he was.
He now got a small bag out of the cupboard, and into this he put a change of clothes. Having washed and dressed, he was ready for the road.
He opened his door quietly, and walked silently along the passage, boots in hand. He had to pass his mother’s room door. His heart beat high, it thumped against his ribs so that he could almost hear it. How he would have liked to have gone in, and kissed his dear mother good-bye! But he dared not.
Not until he was quite out of doors among the snow did he put on his boots. Eily, not knowing him, made a rush, barking and fiercely growling.
“Hush, Eily! hush!” he cried; “it’s me, it’s Harry, your master.”
Eily changed her tune now, and also her attitude. The hair that had been standing up all along her back was smoothed down at once, and as the boy bent to tie his boots she licked his hands and cheek. The poor dog seemed really to know that something more than usual was in the wind.
There was a glimmer of light in the east, but the stars everywhere else were still very bright.
Harry stood up.