The stove lighted, Joe Norton turned to his guests.

“Bless me, and to think of you, Mrs. Abbot, and Miss Jacky, too.  I must fetch the o’d ’ooman.  Hi, Molly, Molly, bestir yourself, old girl.  Come on down, an’ help the ladies.  They’ve come for shelter out o’ the blizzard—­good luck to it.”

“Oh, no, don’t disturb her, Joe,” exclaimed Mrs. Abbot; “it’s really too bad, at this unearthly hour.  Besides, we shall be quite comfortable here by the stove.”

“No doubt—­no doubt,” said the old man, cheerfully, “but that’s not my way—­not my way.  Any of you froze,” he went on ungrammatically, “’cause if so, out you go and thaw it out in the snow.”

“I guess there’s no one frozen,” said Jacky, smiling into the old man’s face.  “We’re too old birds for that.  Ah, here’s Mrs. Norton.”

Another warm greeting and the two ladies were hustled off to the only spare bedroom the Nortons boasted.  By this time “Lord” Bill and “Poker” John had returned from the stables.  While the ladies were removing their furs, which were sodden with the melting snow, the farmer’s wife was preparing a rough but ample meal of warm provender in the kitchen.  Such is hospitality in the Far North-West.

When the supper was prepared the travellers sat down to the substantial fare.  None were hungry—­be it remembered that it was three o’clock in the morning—­but each felt that some pretense in that direction must be made, or the kindly couple would think their welcome was insufficient.

“An’ what made you venture on the trail on such a night?” asked old Norton, as he poured out a joram of hot whiskey for each of the men.  “A moral cert, you wouldn’t strike Foss River in such a storm.”

“We thought it would have held off longer,” said Dr. Abbot.  “It was no use getting cooped up in town for two or three days.  You know what these blizzards are.  You may have to do with us yourself during the next forty-eight hours.”

“It’s too sharp to last, Doc,” put in Jacky, as she helped herself to some soup.  Her face was glowing after her exposure to the elements.  She looked very beautiful and not one whit worse for the drive.

“Sharp enough—­sharp enough,” murmured old Norton, as if for something to say.

“Sharp enough to bring some one else to your hospitable abode, Joe,” interrupted “Lord” Bill, quietly; “I hear sleigh bells.  The wind’s howling, but their tone is familiar.”

They were all listening now.  “Poker” John was the first to speak.

“It’s—­” and he paused.

Before he could complete his sentence Jacky filled up the missing words.

“Lablache—­for a dollar.”

There was a moment’s silence in that rough homely little kitchen.  The expression of the faces of those around the board indexed a general thought.

Lablache, if it were he, would not receive the cordial welcome which had been meted out to the others.  Norton broke the silence.