When it was time for the Wellington party to catch the trolley car home, they emerged from the warm, cheerful dining hall into a world of dazzling whiteness. The trees were clothed in it, and the ground was covered with a crust of ice as hard and shining as marble.
A path of ashes was sprinkled before them, so that they walked safely as far as the station.
"Heaven help us at the other end," Mrs. McLean exclaimed, clinging to the doctor's arm.
The car was late in arriving at Exmoor station. At last it hove into sight, moving at a hesitating gait along the slippery rails. But it had a comfortably warm interior and they were glad to climb in out of the bitter cold.
"All aboard!" called the conductor. "Last car to-night."
There is always a gloomy fatality in the announcement, "Last car to-night." It is just as if a doctor might say: "Nothing more can be done."
Clang, clang, went the bell, and they moved slowly forward.
After an age of slipping and sliding, frequent stopping and starting and exchanges of loud confidences between the motorman and the conductor, the car came to a dead stop.
Dr. McLean, who had been sound asleep and snoring loudly, waked up.
"Bless my soul, are we there?" he demanded.