“Biggin’s place,” said the sheriff. “And the folks are up yet.”
The snow was gathering by this time, for it had taken them more than two hours to drive from Riverdale, spry as the horses had been. And, without doubt, the blacks were glad of the breathing spell promised them when the sheriff drove directly under the wind-shelter beside the farmhouse. This shed offered a warm spot even to the guests the sheriff had brought.
“Don’t want to take you to the house till I find out how the land lies,” he whispered, handing the reins to Mr. Parker, and slipping out from under the robe.
“O-o-o! doesn’t it make you feel de-lic-ious-ly shivery?” whispered Lettie to the doctor’s daughter. “Just like being on a regular man-hunt with the sheriff? We’re his posse.”
“Goosey!” returned Mildred. “I’m on the point of shivering, all right. But only from cold.”
“Are you well wrapped up, girls?” asked the county clerk.
“Oh, yes, sir,” answered Mildred. “And the bricks are still warm at our feet. But I’m afraid it’s going to snow dreadfully hard.”
“What’s a little snow?” demanded the careless Lettie. “Who’s afraid?”
“I wouldn’t want to be caught out on the river in a heavy storm—would you, sir?” asked Mildred of Mr. Parker.
“It’s a straight road home,” said the gentleman, quite as careless as his daughter. “The river ought to be better than the road, as far as that goes.”