"Nae doot o' thot!" hazarded Jock, solemnly sucking away at his.
"The sna's gey deep, I doot," remarked Davie interrogatively.
"Some o' the reefs is fower foot an' mair," answered Peter nonchalantly, between puffs of smoke.
The announcement caused no visible surprise. Maggie Jean made a diversion.
"It's fair noo," she said, glancing through the window, "and there's a bonny moon!"
"Aye," responded Peter. "There's bin nae sna' this guid while."
The party had settled down to silent contemplation of the cheery fire, the men enjoying their pipes, Maggie Jean busy with her knitting. No sound disturbed the peaceful calm except the regular faint click of the rapidly moving knitting-pins.
Suddenly there was a loud noise at the door. It was not so much a knock as the fall of some heavy body against it. Don's startled bark roused all from their seats, and Peter made for the door at once, having first quieted the dog by the forcible argument of a well-directed kick. "It's a mon," he cried in surprise as he opened the door, "faint wi' the cauld!" And at once strong arms lifted the prostrate form out of the snow and bore it to the warm hearthside.
It was a man—young and handsome. He was well dressed, and his thick gloves, gaiters and strong boots, together with his warm clothing, showed him to be not altogether unprovided against the cold whose unusual potency had overcome him. He had evidently tramped for some distance in deep snow, and gave proofs of more than one fall into the drifts.
The men busied themselves in efforts for his restoration. Maggie Jean produced whiskey, which they administered in small doses; Jock and Peter drew off the man's sodden boots and socks, and chafed his hands and feet in the warmth of the fire. Old Davie stood regarding the stranger attentively during these proceedings.