"Nop," answered Joe, "we live off'n that way," and he pointed down a road to the left. "But we've got to take you here to the Mercers', pop said."
He drew up before the first in the string of houses,—a poor enough place, and unspeakably chilling in its deathly whiteness. A tiny white house, a white barn, a white fence, a white cow in the yard,—white snow over everything.
"Looks as if they'd all died an' gone to heaven," thought 'Tilda Jane, with a shiver.
"Hole on," said Joe. "I'll run ahead an' see if the folks is home. Ain't no smoke cornin' out o' the chimney."
He swung open the gate, hurried in, pounded at the front door, pounded at the back door, and finally returned. "Guess there mus' be a funeral or somethin'—all off, anyway. What'll we do, Zeb?"
Zebedee shrugged his shoulders. "S'pose we go nex' door?"
"But them's the Folcutts," objected Joe.
"S'pose they be."
"Well, you know—"
"Guess they kin drive as well as Mercer's folks."