"The icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; and the door
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!".
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 recognized 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."
"It's o'er late for me," she said. "I'd like to live to see it, but His will be done."
Archie rode home the giant hunter, but in two hours he was once more mounted on Scallowa, and feathering back through the snow towards the little cottage. The moon had risen now, and the night was starry and fine. He tied Scallowa up in the peat shed, and went in unannounced.
He found Bob Cooper sitting before the dying embers of the fire, with his face buried in his hands, and rocking himself to and fro.
"She—just blessed me and wore away."
That was all he said or could say. And what words of comfort could Archie speak? None. He sat silently beside him all that livelong night, only getting up now and then to replenish the fire. But the poacher scarcely ever changed his position, only now and then he stretched out one of his great hands and patted Archie's knee as one would pet a dog.