They gathered round the fire, which had smoldered down upon the neglected hearth; but it was soon in a blaze again, and the cheerful light fell upon Margaret's pale and thoughtful face. Philip and Dorothy looked at her, and then glanced apprehensively at each other. For the moment Margaret, with her steadfast and simple air of tranquillity, seemed to belong to another world than theirs.
"God is also in the storm," she said softly, as if to herself. She drew Dorothy close to her, and laid her other hand on Philip's arm.
"Children," she said, "we are no safer than they are, for we are all alike in the hands of God. You must go and take food and rest, that you may be strong to help as soon as the storm is over. Philip must go to seek them as soon as it is possible to find them."
But Margaret herself could not take either rest or food. Under her habitual tranquillity, which had become almost a second nature to her, there was to-night a strange agitation, such as she had felt but once before. This breaking up of the deep spring of feeling differed from the storm that had shaken her soul to the center when she discovered Sidney's treachery; but it was not less intense. She had never known before how much she loved him as her husband, with what a passionate force her heart clung to him. It seemed to her as if she was actually out with him, out in the bewildering snow, weary, aching, stumbling from drift to drift, growing numb and torpid. Oh! if she were really by his side, speaking to him, and hearing his dear voice! It was right that he should go to seek Martin; she did not grudge the peril. She was glad that he should risk his life for the son whose life he had ruined. But if he should perish, her husband, just now, when he had attained a higher level, when the love of God had conquered his love of the world!
From time to time Margaret opened her casement and looked out on the baffling snow-fall, which filled all the contracted field of vision. Nothing else could she see, not even the sky; only the dancing motes against a background of dense gloom.
Soon after dawn the downfall ceased, and Dorothy led Philip up to an attic window from which there was the widest view of the moorland. Stretching before their dazzled eyes was an undulating plain of the purest white, with not a track or mark upon it. Here and there a line of the faintest primrose shining in the pale daylight showed the crest of a hillock or the margin of a hollow. But all landmarks were blotted out. The sky was still of a leaden hue, and there was a threatening of more snow on the northern horizon.
"We must find them before another night comes on," exclaimed Philip.
"I could find my way to Martin's cave with a compass," said Dorothy hesitatingly. "If the sun comes out I am sure I could find it."
"But you must not go, my darling," he answered. "I cannot let you go with us men."
"My dogs would be very little use without me," she said; "they will not follow anyone else so well. I don't think the dogs can track them, but Martin might hear their baying, and would make an effort to come to us, or let us know where they are."