It was a bitter day of one of the coldest winters we had ever known.  A shrieking wind came over the hills, driving a scud of snow before it The stock in the stables, we all came in, soon after dinner, and sat comfortably by the fire with cider, checkers and old sledge.  The dismal roar of the trees and the wind-wail in the chimney served only to increase our pleasure.  It was growing dusk when mother, peering through the sheath of frost on a window pane, uttered an exclamation of surprise.

‘Why! who is this at the door?’ said she.  ’Why!  It’s a man in a cutter.’  Father was near the door and he swung it open quickly.  There stood a horse and cutter, a man sitting in it, heavily muffled.  The horse was shivering and the man sat motionless.

‘Hello!’ said David Brower in a loud voice.

He got no answer and ran bareheaded to the sleigh.

‘Come, quick, Holden,’ he called, ‘it’s Doctor Bigsby.’

We all ran out then, while David lifted the still figure in his arms.

‘In here, quick!’ said Elizabeth, opening the door to the parlour.  ’Musn’t take ‘im near the stove.’

We carried him into the cold room and laid him down, and David and I tore his wraps open while the others ran quickly after snow.

I rubbed it vigorously upon his face and ears, the others meantime applying it to his feet and arms, that had been quickly stripped.  The doctor stared at us curiously and tried to speak.

‘Get ap, Dobbin!’ he called presently, and ducked as if urging his horse.  ’Get ap, Dobbin!  Man’ll die ‘fore ever we git there.’

We all worked upon him with might and main.  The white went slowly out of his face.  We lifted him to a sitting posture.  Mother and Hope and Uncle Eb were rubbing his hands and feet.

‘Where am I?’ he enquired, his face now badly swollen.

‘At David Brower’s,’ said I.

‘Huh?’ he asked, with that kindly and familiar grunt of interrogation.

‘At David Brower’s,’ I repeated.

‘Well, I’ll have t’ hurry,’ said he, trying feebly to rise.  ‘Man’s dyin’ over — ’ he hesitated thoughtfully, ‘on the Plains,’ he added, looking around at us.

Grandma Bisnette brought a lamp and held it so the light fell on his face.  He looked from one to another.  He drew one of his hands away and stared at it.

‘Somebody froze?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said I.

‘Hm!  Too bad.  How’d it happen?’ he asked.  ‘I don’t know.’

‘How’s the pulse?’ he enquired, feeling for my wrist.

I let him hold it in his hand.

‘Will you bring me some water in a glass?’ he enquired, turning to Mrs Brower, just as I had seen him do many a time in Gerald’s illness.  Before she came with the water his head fell forward upon his breast, while he muttered feebly.  I thought then he was dead, but presently he roused himself with a mighty effort.

‘David Brower!’ he called loudly, and trying hard to rise, ’bring the horse! bring the horse!  Mus’ be goin’, I tell ye.  Man’s dyin’ over — on the Plains.’