Fortunately, the kitchen door was in a sheltered place, and no snow was piled up before it, but she had a hard time getting through the drifts to the well. However, she did at last succeed in drawing the water and getting back to the door. As she set down the pail, a thought struck her,—“What will become of Miss Hester in this storm?”
She went out again, closing the door softly behind her, and looked toward the cottage, which was not far off, in plain sight. In the place where the little house should be was a great white hill. Maggie floundered through the drifts till she reached the gate, where she had a better view.
The storm held up for a moment, so that Maggie could see over the village. Every house in sight was sending up a thin column of smoke, showing there was life within. Miss Hester’s chimney alone was smokeless.
“Dear me!” thought the child, “I’m afraid she’s sick, and what’ll become of her and the cow—the shed is so far off, and she could never fight her way through the drifts,—she ain’t very strong—and so little.” Another pause while she strained her eyes to see signs of life about the cottage.
“Well, anyway,” she said at last, “she was awful good to me last summer, and I’ll see if I can’t get there to help her,” and she bravely started out.
It was a hopeless-looking task, for between Mrs. Burns’s and Hester Bartlett’s were drifts that seemed mountain high. Not a soul was in sight, and just then the storm began again, wilder than ever.
But Maggie was not to be daunted; that cold, smokeless chimney gave her a strange feeling of fear, and nerved her for great efforts.
I shall not go with her step by step over her terrible journey, for though the house was near, every step was a struggle and a battle. Many times she fell down and got up staggering and blinded by snow; many times she lost her direction and had to wait till a momentary lull in the storm showed her the forlorn chimney again.
Through unheard-of difficulties she reached the house, her clothes full of the dry, powdery snow, her eyes blinded, her hair a mass of white, and aching in every limb from her efforts and the cold.
The front door was completely buried in snow, and indeed, the whole front of the cottage seemed but a snow mountain. The drifts were lower on the side, so she staggered on towards the kitchen door. As she came near, she saw, to her dismay, that the snow had fallen away, and the door was open.