Christie bowed, collapsed, shuddering, cowered in the bottom of the rude cart, her white, thin face hidden in her whiter, thinner hands. Uncle Reuben, urging on the stumbling donkey to his utmost speed, and now and then turning to see that "Little Christie" was safe, or to glance at the tall, dark figure walking opposite. And Willard Drummond, with his hat drawn down over his brows, muffled in his cloak, strode on, with bowed head, too absorbed in his own bitter thoughts to heed the flight of time.
And so the long, silent night lingered and lingered, and the dripping forest-road was passed at last; and they passed, at intervals, gloomy-looking farm-houses, whose inmates were still asleep, and whose only greeting to our weary travelers was the noisy barking of their watchdogs as they passed on.
And so the melancholy journey was continued until morning, wan, cold and gray, lifted its dead, dull face from the mantle of night, and cast a sickly glimmer of light along the wet, slippery path.
"Morning at last," said Uncle Reuben, lifting his head, with a deep sigh of relief. "This has been the longest night I have ever known."
"Yes, morning," said Willard Drummond, looking up bitterly at the dull, leaden sky; "and we so far from Westport yet; Only one day more between her and an ignominious death."
Uncle Reuben looked at him a moment, and then at the bowed form in the cart, with a look of calm reproach.
"Is thee tired, Christie?" he said, approaching her.
She lifted her head, disclosing a face so white and haggard, so worn with fatigue, sleeplessness, and grief, that even Willard started back in sorrow and alarm.
"Oh, little Christie! I knew this journey would kill thee!" said Uncle Reuben, with a groan.
"I feel a little tired, that is all," she said, forcing a wan smile. "Dear friend, do not look at me with such frightened, anxious eyes; it is nothing."