The path was wet, slippery, and dangerous in the extreme. The horses were restive, and a single false step would have overturned them into the water.
"Missus Scour, if you please, missus, you'd better git out," said the negro, reining in the horses, in evident alarm; "this yer's the wussest road I'se ever trabeled. These wishious brutes 'll spill me and you, and the sleigh, and then the Lor only knows what'll ever become of us."
"Do you think there's any danger, Jupiter?" said Mrs. Gower (for such was the name her sable attendant had transformed into Scour), in a voice of alarm.
"This road's sort o' 'spicious anyhow," replied Jupiter. "I'd 'vise you, Missus Scour, mum, to get out and walk till we is past this yer beach. 'Sides the snow, this yer funnelly beach is full o' holes, an' if we got upsot inter one of 'em, ole marse might whistle for you and me, and the sleigh arter that!"
With much difficulty, and with any amount of whoaing, Jupiter managed to stop the sleigh, and assisted stout Mrs. Gower to alight. This was no easy job, for that worthy lady was rather unwieldy, and panted like a stranded porpoise, as she slowly plunged through the wet snow-drifts.
Suddenly, above the jingling sleigh-bells, the wail of an infant met her ear. She paused in amazement, and looked around. Again she heard it—this time seemingly at her feet. She looked down and beheld a small, dark bundle, lying amid the deep snow.
Once more the piteous cry met her ear, and stooping down, she raised the little dark object in her arms.
Unfolding the shawl, she beheld the infant whose cries had first arrested her ear.
"Good heavens! a baby exposed to this weather—left here to perish!" exclaimed good Mrs. Gower, in horror. "Poor little thing, it's half frozen. Who could have done so unnatural a deed?"
"Laws! Missus Scour, what ye got dar?" inquired Jupiter.