64 JUSTIN MORGAN 



Uncle Peter a cheery good-night she set out on her er- 

 rand. 



It was a cruel night, clouds large and low swept over 

 the moon's face and piled themselves up along the horizon 

 like banks of snow. Dame Margery spoke soothingly 

 and blithely to the horse which partly reconciled him to 

 the dire cold. 



When they arrived at their destination Margery went 

 into the hut and a young man came out to throw a fur 

 square over True's shivering back and lead him out of 

 the wind. 



Hours passed. Inside the hut a child lay on a pallet on 

 the floor ; Margery knelt beside it. Finally she withdrew 

 her arm from beneath the little head very gently and 

 rose to her full, lean height. The white-faced, dry-eyed 

 mother stood near — undemonstrative as Vermont women 

 are apt to be but none the less grateful for all their still- 

 ness. 



She followed Margery to the door as the latter stepped 

 out into the bitter night. 



"Looks like a storm," Margery said, over her shoul- 

 der. *'See that you don't forget the pleurisy-root tea — 

 and have it piping hot !" 



''Best tarry the night," urged the woman, hospitably, 

 from the door where she stood, screening a sputtering 

 dip from the wind with her hand. 



"Nay, nay, yet I give you thanks," answered Mar- 

 gery, gaily. "I am not afraid of storms ; I was born in 

 one and brought up in a wigwam !" 



She pulled the covering from True's back and 

 mounted. 



They started just as a veil of blinding snow fell full 

 in their faces — and it fell so fast the ground was soon 

 white. 



The vicious wind, like an unchained demon, caught 



