Did ever the worthy London merchant, in the course of his life, approach to the verge of the region of despair, it was on that eventful night when he found himself and his family lost among the mountains of Scotland.
“It’s dreadful,” said he, sitting down on a cold grey rock, and beginning slowly to realise the utter hopelessness of their condition.
“My poor Lucy, don’t be cast down,” (drawing her to his breast), “after all, it will only be a night of wandering. But we must keep moving. We must not venture to lie down in our wet clothes. We must not even rest long at a time, lest a chill should come upon you.”
“But I’m quite warm, papa, and only a very little tired. I could walk for miles yet.” She said this cheerily, but she could not help looking anxious. The night was so dark, however, that no one could see her looks.
“Do let me go off alone, father,” urged George; “I am as fresh as possible, and could run over the hills until I should fall in with—”
“Don’t mention it, George; I feel that our only hope is to keep together. Poor Peter! what will become of that boy?”
Mr Sudberry became almost, desperate as he thought of the small clerk. He started up. “Come, we must keep moving. You are not cold, dear? are you sure you are not cold?”
“Quite sure, papa; why are you so anxious?”
“Because I have a flask of brandy, which I mean to delay using until we break down and cannot get on without it. Whenever you begin to get chilled I must give you brandy. Not till then, however; spirits are hurtful when there is hard toil before you, but when you break down there is no resource left. Rest, food, sleep, would be better; but these we have no chance of getting to-night. Poor Jacky! does he keep warm, George?”
“No fear of him,” cried George, with forced gaiety. “He’s all right.”