After this Emily began to keep account of the days as they passed.  She had her mother reckon for her the actual number until New Year’s Eve, and each morning she would say, “only so many days now an’ Bob’ll be comin’ home.”  Her mother warned her that it was not at all certain he would come then—­only a hope.  But it grew to be a settled fact for Emily, and a part of her daily life, to expect and plan for the happy time when she should see him.

Mrs. Gray had not been able to throw off entirely the foreboding of calamity that she had voiced at the time Bob left home.  Every morning she awoke with a heavy heart, like one bearing a great weight of sorrow.  Before going about her daily duties she would pray for the preservation of her son and the healing of her daughter, and it would relieve her burden somewhat, but never wholly.  The strange Presence was always with her.

One day when Douglas Campbell came over he found her very despondent, and he asked: 

“Now what’s troublin’ you, Mary?  There’s some trouble on yer mind.  Don’t be worryin’ about th’ lad.  He’s as safe as you be.  He’ll be comin’ home as fine an’ hearty as ever you see him, an’ with a fine hunt.”

“I knows the’s no call for th’ worry,” she answered, “but someways I has a forebodin’ o’ somethin’ evil t’ happen an’ I can’t shake un off.  I can’t tell what an be.  Mayhap ‘tis th’ maid.  She’s no better, an’ th’ Lard’s not answerin’ my prayer yet t’ give back strength t’ she an’ make she walk.”

“‘Twill be all right wi’ th’ maid, now.  Th’ doctor said they’d be makin’ she well at th’ hospital.”

“But the’s no money t’ send she t’ th’ hospital—­an’ if she don’t go—­th’ doctor said she’d never be gettin’ well.”

“Now don’t be lettin’ that worry ye, Mary.  Th’ Lard’ll be findin’ a way t’ send she t’ St. Johns when th’ mail boat comes back in th’ spring, if that be His way o’ curin she—­I knows He will.  Th’ Lard always does things right an’ He’ll be fixin’ it right for th’ maid.  He’d not be lettin’ a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi’out walkin’—­He never would do that.  I’m thinkin’ He’d a’ found a way afore now if th’ mail boat had been makin’ another trip before th’ freeze up.”

“I’m lackin’ in faith, I’m fearin’.  I’m always forgettin’ that th’ Lard does what’s best for us an’ don’t always do un th’ way we wants He to.  He’s bidin’ His own time I’m thinkin’, an’ answerin’ my prayers th’ way as is best.”

This talk with Douglas made her feel better, but still there was that burden on her heart—­a burden that would not be shaken off.

All the Bay was frozen now, and white, like the rest of the world, with drifted snow.  The great box stove in the cabin was kept well filled with wood night and day to keep out the searching cold.  An inch-thick coat of frost covered the inner side of the glass panes of the two windows and shut out the morning sunbeams that used to steal across the floor to brighten the little room.  December was fast drawing to a close.