With fast failing energy he reached the door, staggered in, dropped his burden gently on his own soft heather-bed, and fell exhausted. He lay but a moment, came to himself, rose, and looked at the lovely thing he had laboured to redeem from ‘cold obstruction.’ It lay just as it had fallen from his back, its face uppermost: it _was_ Phemy! For a moment his blood seemed to stand still; then all the divine senses of the half-witted returned to him. There was no time to be sorrowful over her: he must save the life that might yet be in that frozen form! He had nothing in the house except warmth, but warmth more than aught else was what the cold thing needed! With trembling hands he took off her half-thawed clothes, laid her in the thick blankets of his bed, and covered her with every woollen thing in the hut. Then he made up a large fire, in the hope that some of its heat might find her. She showed no sign of life. Her eyes were fast shut: those who die of cold only sleep into a deeper sleep. Not a trace of suffering was to be seen on her countenance. Death alone, pure, calm, cold, and sweet, was there. But Steenie had never seen Death, and there was room for him to doubt and hope. He laid one fold of a blanket over the lovely white face, as he had seen a mother do with a sleeping infant, called his dog, made him lie down on her feet, and told him to watch; then turned away, and went to the door. As he passed the fire, he coughed and grew faint, but recovering himself, picked up his fallen stick, and set out for Corbyknowe and Kirsty. Once more the wind had ceased, but the snow was yet falling. CHAPTER XXIII THE STORM AGAIN Kirsty woke suddenly out of a deep, dreamless sleep. A white face was bending over her--Steenie’s--whiter than ever Kirsty had seen it. He was panting, and his eyes were huge. She started up. ‘Come; come!’ was all he was able to say. ‘What’s the metter, Steenie?’ she gasped. For a quarter of a minute he stood panting, unable to speak. ‘I’m no thinkin onything’s gane wrang,’ he faltered at length with an effort, recovering breath and speech a little. ‘The bonny man--’ He burst into tears and turned his head away. A vision of the white, lovely, motionless thing, whose hand had fallen from his like a lump of lead, lying alone at the top of the Horn, with the dog on her feet, had overwhelmed him suddenly. Kirsty was sore distressed. She dreaded the worst when she saw him thus lose the self-restraint hitherto so remarkable in him. She leaned from her bed, threw her arms round him, and drew him to her. He kneeled, laid his head on her bosom, and wept as she had never known him weep. ‘I’ll tak care o’ ye, Steenie, my man!’ she murmured. ‘Fear ye naething.’ It is amazing how much, in the strength of its own divinity, love will dare promise! ‘Ay, Kirsty, I ken ye wull, but it’s no me!’ said Steenie. Thereupon he gave a brief, lucid account of what had occurred in the night.