“Half a mile to Trout Creek.  Two miles to Norton’s.  Can you do it, Bill?”

Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a world of meaning in the question.  To lose their way now would be worse, infinitely, than to lose oneself in one of the sandy deserts of Africa.  Death was in that biting wind and in the blinding snow.  Once lost, and, in two or three hours, all would be over.

“Yes,” came the monosyllabic reply.  “Lord” Bill’s lips were pursed tightly.  Every now and then he dashed the snow and breath icicles from his eyelashes.  The horses were almost hidden from his view.

They were descending a steep gradient and they now knew that they were upon Trout Creek.  At the creek Bill pulled up.  It was the first stop since leaving Calford.  Jacky and he jumped down.  Each knew what the other was about to do without speaking.  Jacky, reins in hand, went round the horses; “Lord” Bill was searching for the trail which turned off from the main road up the creek to Norton’s.  Presently he came back.

“Animals all right?”

“Fit as fiddles,” the girl replied.

“Right—­jump up!”

There was no assisting this girl to her seat.  No “by your leave” or European politeness.  Simply the word of one man who knows his business to another.  Both were on their “native heath.”

Bill checked the horses’ impetuosity and walked them slowly until he came to the turning.  Once on the right road, however, he let them have their heads.

“It’s all right, Jacky,” as the horses bounded forward.

A few minutes later the sleigh drew up at Norton’s, but so dark was it and so dense the snow fog, that only those two keen watchers on the front seat were able to discern the outline of the house.

“Poker” John and the doctor assisted the old lady to alight whilst Jacky and “Lord” Bill unhitched the horses.  In spite of the cold the sweat was pouring from the animals’ sides.  In answer to a violent summons on the storm door a light appeared in the window and “soldier” Joe Norton opened the door.

For an instant he stood in the doorway peering doubtfully out into the storm.  A goodly picture he made as he stood lantern in hand, his rugged old face gazing inquiringly at his visitors.

“Hurry up, Joe, let us in,” exclaimed Allandale.  “We are nearly frozen to death.”

“Why, bless my soul!—­bless my soul!  Come in!  Come in!” the old man exclaimed hastily as he recognized John Allandale’s voice.  “You out, and on a night like this.  Bless my soul!  Come in!  Down, Husky, down!” to a bob-tail sheep-dog which bounded forward and barked savagely.

“Hold on, Joe,” said “Poker” John.  “Let the ladies go in, we must see to the horses.”

“It’s all right, uncle,” said Jacky, “we’ve unhitched ’em.  Bill’s taken ’em right away to the stables.”

The whole party passed into Joe Norton’s sitting-room, where the old farmer at once set about kindling, with the aid of some coal-oil, a fire in the great box-stove.  While his host was busy John took the lantern and went to “Lord” Bill’s assistance in the stables.