"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."
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.
