“The meaning is sad enough,” said Lorna; “and I see no way out of it.  We are both to be starved until I let them do what they like with me.

“That is to say until you choose to marry Carver Doone, and be slowly killed by him?”

“Slowly!  No, John, quickly.  I hate him so intensely, that less than a week would kill me.”

“Not a doubt of that,” said Gwenny; “oh, she hates him nicely then; but not half so much as I do.”

I told them that this state of things could be endured no longer, on which point they agreed with me, but saw no means to help it.  For even if Lorna could make up her mind to come away with me and live at Plover’s Barrows farm, under my good mother’s care, as I had urged so often, behold the snow was all around us, heaped as high as mountains, and how could any delicate maiden ever get across it?

Then I spoke with a strange tingle upon both sides of my heart, knowing that this undertaking was a serious one for all, and might burn our farm down,—­

“If I warrant to take you safe, and without much fright or hardship, Lorna, will you come with me?”

“To be sure I will, dear,” said my beauty, with a smile and a glance to follow it; “I have small alternative, to starve, or go with you, John.”

“Gwenny, have you courage for it?  Will you come with your young mistress?”

“Will I stay behind?” cried Gwenny, in a voice that settled it.  And so we began to arrange about it; and I was much excited.  It was useless now to leave it longer; if it could be done at all, it could not be too quickly done.  It was the Counsellor who had ordered, after all other schemes had failed, that his niece should have no food until she would obey him.  He had strictly watched the house, taking turns with Carver, to ensure that none came nigh it bearing food or comfort.  But this evening, they had thought it needless to remain on guard; and it would have been impossible, because themselves were busy offering high festival to all the valley, in right of their own commandership.  And Gwenny said that nothing made her so nearly mad with appetite as the account she received from a woman of all the dishes preparing.  Nevertheless she had answered bravely,—­

“Go and tell the Counsellor, and go and tell the Carver, who sent you to spy upon us, that we shall have a finer dish than any set before them.”  And so in truth they did, although so little dreaming it; for no Doone that was ever born, however much of a Carver, might vie with our Annie for mince-meat.

Now while we sat reflecting much, and talking a good deal more, in spite of all the cold—­for I never was in a hurry to go, when I had Lorna with me—­she said, in her silvery voice, which always led me so along, as if I were a slave to a beautiful bell,—­

“Now, John, we are wasting time, dear.  You have praised my hair, till it curls with pride, and my eyes till you cannot see them, even if they are brown diamonds which I have heard for the fiftieth time at least; though I never saw such a jewel.  Don’t you think it is high time to put on your snow-shoes, John?”