Bunning-Ford and Jacky occupied the front seat of the sleigh.  The former was driving the spanking team of blacks of which old “Poker” John was justly proud.  The sleigh was open, as in Canada all such sleighs are.  Mrs. Abbot and the doctor sat in a seat with their backs to Jacky and her companion, and old John Allandale faced the wind in the back seat, alone.  Thirty-five miles the horses had to cover before the storm thoroughly established itself, and “Lord” Bill was not a slow driver.

The figures of the travellers were hardly distinguishable so enwrapped were they in beaver caps, buffalo coats and robes.  Jacky, as she sat silently beside her companion, might have been taken for an inanimate bundle of furs, so lost was she within the ample folds of her buffalo.  But for the occasional turn of her head, as she measured with her eyes the rising of the storm, she gave no sign of life.

“Lord” Bill seemed indifferent.  His eyes were fixed upon the road ahead and his hands, encased in fur mitts, were on the “lines” with a tenacious grip.  The horses needed no urging.  They were high-mettled and cold.  The gushing quiver of their nostrils, as they drank in the crisp, night air, had a comforting sound for the occupants of the sleigh.  Weather permitting, those beautiful “blacks” would do the distance in under three hours.

The sleigh bells jangled musically in response to the high steps of the horses as they sped over the hard, snow-covered trail.  They were climbing the long slope which was to take them out of the valley wherein was Calford situate.  Presently Jack’s face appeared from amidst the folds of the muffler which kept her storm collar fast round her neck and ears.

“It’s gaining on us, Billy.”

“Yes, I know.”

He understood her remark.  He knew she referred to the storm.  His lips were curiously pursed.  A knack he had when stirred out of himself.

“We shan’t do it.”

The girl spoke with conviction.

“No.”

“Guess we’d better hit the trail for Norton’s.  Soldier Joe’ll be glad to welcome us.”

“Lord” Bill did not answer.  He merely chirruped at the horses.  The willing beasts increased their pace and the sleigh sped along with that intoxicating smoothness only to be felt when travelling with double “bobs” on a perfect trail.

The gray wind of the approaching blizzard was becoming fiercer.  The moon was already enveloped in a dense haze.  The snow was driving like fine sand in the faces of the travellers.

“I think we’ll give it an hour, Bill.  After that I guess it’ll be too thick,” pursued the girl.  “What d’you think, can we make Norton’s in that time—­it’s a good sixteen miles?”

“I’ll put ’em at it,” was her companion’s curt response.

Neither spoke for a minute.  Then “Lord” Bill bent his head suddenly forward.  The night was getting blacker and it was with difficulty that he could keep his eyes from blinking under the lash of the whipping snow.