But I wouldn’t despair.  I made her talk.  Kept asking her questions:  If the wind had not gone down?  If she heard the surf upon the beach?  If she saw a light?

“Yes,” said she at last,—­“I see a light.”

At first I was frightened, thinking her mind wandered.  But directly I saw that towards the right, and a little in advance of us, was a misty spot of light.

When we were near enough to see where it came from, it seemed as if all my strength left me at once,—­the relief was so sudden.

’Twas a squaw’s hut.  I knew then just where we were.  I climbed up the bank, with Margaret in my arms, and pounded with all my might upon the side of the hut, calling out, “For God’s sake, open the door!” A latch rattled close to my ears, and a door flew open.  ’Twas Old Suke.  I had, many a time, when a boy, called out to her, “Black clouds arising!”—­for we always would torment the colored folks, when they came down with their brooms.

I pushed past her into the hut,—­into the midst of rushes, brooms, and baskets,—­into a shelter.  I never knew before what the word meant.

The fireplace was full of blazing pine-knots, which made the room as light as day.  Old Suke showed herself a Christian.  She told me where to find a shed for my horse; and while I was gone, she took the wet things off Margaret, and rubbed her hands and feet with snow.  She took red peppers from a string over the fireplace, boiled them in milk, and made us drink it.  I thought of “heaping coals of fire.”  She dipped up hulled corn from a pot on the hearth, and made us eat.  I felt like singing the song of Mungo Park.

Margaret kept pretty still.  I knew the reason.  The warm blood was rushing back to her fingers and toes, and they ached like the toothache.  Mine did.  ’Twas a long while before Old Suke would let us come nearer the fire.  Her old mother was squatting upon the hearth.  She looked to be a hundred and fifty.  Her face was like a baked apple,—­for she was part Indian, not very black.  She had a check-handkerchief tied round her head, and an old pea-jacket over her shoulders, with the sleeves hanging.  She hardly noticed us, but sat smoking her pipe, looking at the coals.  ’Twas curious to see Margaret’s face by hers in the firelight.

A little after midnight the storm abated, and by four o’clock the stars were out.  I asked Margaret if she would be afraid to stay there, while I went home to tell the folks what had become of us.

“Oh, no,” she said. “’Twas just what she’d been thinking about.  She would be making baskets.”—­Some girls would never have dared stay in such a place.

I promised to be back as soon as possible, and left her there by the old woman.

’Twas just about daylight when I came in sight of father’s.  Mr. Nathaniel was walking about the yard, looking up the road at every turn.  He hurried towards me.

“All safe!” I called out.